that deathless death
by bluestoplights
Summary: When death and illness run rampant in Emma Swan's world, she finds herself looking for help in the most unlikely of places. Killian Jones, the sullen god of the Underworld, is willing to take a good deal when he sees one. Hades/Persephone inspired AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This was originally going to a oneshot. The longer I wrote it, the more I saw that it would be...hard to accomplish in one take. I'm predicting maybe 5-6 chapters? Depending? Feminist interpretations of Hades/Persephone are my JAM (honestly, why have the kidnapping and Stockholm Syndrome version when you can have...well, actually, anything else) so I got pretty stoked about writing this. That being said, it's obviously not a clear cut Greek mythology AU. Doing so would be OOC and just not nearly as fun as heavily changing the situation, major players, etc. to fit these two the best - so you're reading this for like...the historical accuracy of mythology, you should be reading something else.**

 **Then again, if you watch OUAT, I'm willing to bet you're used to bastardizations of Greek mythos. What...was...that Underworld arc...**

 **Anyways, I really hope you guys like it.**

 **-/-**

It's death, death, and more death.

A tad monotonous, if you asked Killian, but no one hardly asked him much at all. Sure, there were the pleas to save and the pleas to spare (as if he had any bloody control over either - he's no more than a jailer), but as far as the asking...no one asked him much at all. There was the general understanding of what death and the Underworld and being the god of the Underworld meant. No need to ask very many questions at all.

(He'd asked his share of questions - beginning with _'why'_ and ending with _'me'_.)

He'd gotten saddled with the job, see.

The last thing Killian has ever wished to be was god of the Underworld. The sea, he'd thought, would be a domain that would befit him far better - his father was a minor god of it under Poseidon, leaving Killian's mortal mother pregnant and never bothering revisiting her and as much hatred as he's always held for the man, the sea has always ran in his blood. Alas, it wasn't what was meant to be. What the then-newly crowned god of the skies and the heavens and all things light and bloody perfect wished, he got.

Zeus and Hades and all the rest were dead of the bloody Olympians, now, as dead as gods could be. That left them - centuries old and with some trace of godly blood in their veins - as the new rulers.

It left Rumplestiltskin as the new ruler, namely. He'd just hoarded the nearest damn gods (and if suited - or not quite suited, Rumplestiltskin's face had curled in that dreadful snarl that passed as a smile - the ever lesser demigods) and assigned them to their new roles. Killian had pled for the sea, reasoning that he and his ship (his ship, he misses, nearly wishes a bloody ship could die if it meant a reunion in the Underworld he's trapped in) and his experience with the waters would be a perfect match. The ocean was already his domain, the smell of salt and brine called him home since he was a boy. If he was forced to watch over a post formerly held by an Olympian, he'd gladly take the ports and docks.

But Rumplestiltskin never liked him, much. Told him he'd be perfect for the Underworld - given the skull and crossbones on his sails and around his neck. Given the way he'd seen his mother die, his half-brother, all the rest he touched.

Pain and suffering would suit him much more, was the insinuation.

Rumplestiltskin knows best, if what the mortals above him prayed and sung hymns about was any indication. And thus, Killian became the jailer. Shepherded the dead to their designated places, saw the horror in the eyes of those who left behind widows and widowers and orphans. There were the dead and more of the dead. Constant, he supposes, but dreadful nonetheless. It's an endless deluge, see, people can't seem to stop dying if they'd as much as tried to.

(Sometimes, Killian is convinced they bloody aren't - when the boats keep getting fuller and fuller and his tasks more and more strenuous.)

Killian taps a restless pattern against the steel arm of the throne he's sitting it - not feeling a shred like the royalty he's meant to. He's always hated kings - now he is one. For more the three centuries, he's been the king of the Underworld. Passing judgement on others while avoiding passing judgement on himself.

He sighs heavily.

"Smee?"

The man in question appears quickly, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to get to Killian. Underworld or not, it seems at least this hasn't changed in the slightest. "Yes, your majesty?"

He used to call him his Captain. Killian infinitely preferred that title. "Bring the next one in, aye?"

Smee nods quickly. "There are lines outside, your majesty. Have you ever thought of having someone else make the judgements? Just to share the burden?"

"Smee," Killian hisses sharply. "How many bloody times have we have this conversation?"

Smee looks - rightfully - shamefaced. "Several times, sir."

"And how many bloody times have I given you the same answer?"

"Too many," Smee replies stiffly. "Sorry, sir."

The answer - of course - is that he doesn't trust anyone else with the job. As much as he may detest it, may resent it, may wish it on anyone else, he can't trust anyone else to do it. He can't trust them with that power, with those thoughts, with those duties.

Killian sighs. "I'll be quick, aye? Reckon I can get through a good chunk within the hour. In the meantime..."

"I know, I know," Smee nods. "Just house them, make sure they don't throw each other in the River of Lost Souls."

Killian nods. "Precisely. Thank you, Smee. Bring the next one in and leave us alone."

"Of course," Smee says, already heading out of the door. He shepherds in the next mortal, an unassuming woman who slouches as she walks in with one tentative step in front of the other.

"Welcome to the Underworld, lass," Killian greets, voice ringing through the high-ceilings of the throne room. "Sorry you've had to come so soon."

She's young, he can tell, no older than thirty. He's had too many young visitors over the past year. It only ever seems to grow greater.

The woman swallows, seeming to steady herself. Her spine straightens and her eyes finally come up to meet his. "And this is where I meet my judgement?"

"Aye," Killian nods, not unkindly. "This is where you meet your judgement. We'll try to make it quick so we can get to the rest, alright?"

"Alright," she says with a nod, her eyes screwing shut.

Killian laughs at that, a bit, shaking his head. "I'm not going to hurt you, lass," he holds his hand out for her to take, ringed fingers reaching out towards her from his throne. It's easier, he's found, to let them approach you rather than the inverse. Walking up to someone already scared, already scarred by their recent deaths, could only scare the bloody daylights out of them. Letting them approach him, here, made it a bit easier on the both of them.

They didn't have to be afraid. He didn't have to chase.

Killian gives the woman a small, encouraging nod. He's impatient - impatient to get this over with, to get to the rest - but he's doing his best not to show it. Showing impatience could only make them more scared, more unwilling to let him do his damned job. The woman eyes him speculatively when she opens her eyes, walking forward step by cautious step.

"Just shake my hand," he encourages lightly, "and I'll tell you where you belong. As long as you haven't murdered anyone without remorse, I doubt you're going to Tartarus, so let's just do this quickly so I can get to the people behind you - aye?"

"Okay," she replies, a tad unsteadily. She's inches from him, now, her hand hovering inches from his outstretched one. "Okay."

Her hand slips in his, then, and he sees all he needs to when he closes his eyes.

She had a son, a mother, a father who died when she was a wee lass. She worked in the village, helped her mother at the market, and a terrible, all too common sickness struck her villages and she and her entire family fell sick. A familiar figure from a few memories like this, the Savior - he's gathered she's a minor goddess with some sort of healing powers, hence her name - appears in this woman's memories, quickly rushing to the village, going through hosts of the sick and saving those she can.

The woman told the Savior to get her mother and her son first, to heal them instead of her with the precious remnants of their time and their sickness. The Savior followed her instructions, quickly rushing to aid the older woman and the young boy. The last thing the woman remembers is the Savior's face, soft and remorseful as she tucked behind a blonde strand of hair behind her ears and gently setting her hands atop her shoulders though she knew, she had to know it was too late. Almost angelic, the woman looks from this perspective, crying tears for a woman she doesn't know and a soul she couldn't hope to save. It reminds him of -

The woman's hand leaves his.

"The Elysian Fields," Killian rasps, opening his eyes again. "The Elysian Fields is where you belong, lass."

It's a rare judgement - few exhibit such selflessness enough to warrant it - but Killian supposes this woman has. Saving her family ahead of herself is a noble act, indeed. The Asphodel Meadows did just fine for most mortals - average citizens with average lives. The good and the bad balance out in most (the irony of him, of all people, deciding what made people good and what made people bad is something that would be amusing if it weren't bloody terrifying) mortals. The Meadows allowed them to live their lives much as they did before.

Tartarus was reserved for the worst of the worst - ruthless killers and those who preyed on the vulnerable and people who violated others in the ugliest sense of the word. It was typically clear who belonged there within seconds of seeing their eyes - the death that already lingered behind them. A handshake and he can see their worst sins, their worst thoughts.

Some of them haunt him - the terrible things they've done and the awful things they want.

The woman looks at him in shock, her jaw dropping and her eyes widening. "You think...the Elysian Fields?"

"Aye," he says, nodding with a slight smile. It's not often he's able to deliver good news and, well, though she's been separated from her family for years to come, news of paradise is at least slightly uplifting. "The Elysian Fields - I do hope you enjoy your time there. You've earned it, lass."

"Is it," she hesitates, biting her lip, "is it as good as people make it out to be?"

Killian's smile widens. "Better."

"Is this some kind of trick?"

"I don't do tricks," he promises. "The door to your right across the room should take you where you need to be - someone will escort you the rest of the way."

The woman is still awestruck, overwhelmed by the declaration. "I - thank you. Thank you so much."

He shrugs. "It's what I'm here for, I suppose. I wish you a nice afterlife," he cranes his head around her to see the front door once more, "Smee?"

"Yes, your majesty?"

"Do escort this woman to the path to the Elysian Fields, please. Then bring the next one in, will you?"

-/-

Emma sighs, cleaning her hands for what must be the thirtieth time today. She runs the bar of soap over her palms, lathering it over her skin in the basin, and tries not to think of what her hands are incapable of doing.

(They can only do so much, see, can only heal so much. And when people die, they're dead and while her magic can do many things - it can't bring someone back from the dead.)

She flicks her hand, ridding it of the water that lingers in between her fingers, in her palms. Washing her hands in between healing people, while she could, was always a good idea. Even if she may be immune to diseases, the last thing she needs to do is pass sickness on to more sick people. Emma grabs a cloth, patting it through her fingers, and she hears a delicate knock on the door.

Emma doesn't even have to look to know that it's her mother. She can feel her easily enough. "Come in," she calls, setting the cloth down and leaning against the basin.

"You alright?" Snow asks, peering into the washroom. Emma gives her a quick nod, eyes fixed on the candle illuminating the room.

The wax is getting closer and closer to the brass. Soon it'll be out, unable to burn anymore. "I'm fine," she tells her, her voice falling a little flat.

"Emma…" Snow says, walking up to her and settling her hands on Emma's back. She sighs, shutting her eyes and resisting the temptation to cry. It's endless, the death. No matter how many people she saves, there will still be droves that die - candles that run out of wax, sickness that gets into the body and the blood of people she can't all save.

"I'm fine," she insists again, but her voice is too thick for the protest to have any sort of weight.

"C'mere," Snow insists, grabbing her still damp hands (more of a blessing than a curse, it feels like, because with all they can do it still won't be enough). She pulls her forward, walking backwards until they're out of the room. All Emma can do is keep her eyes pinned to her bare feet. "Let's sit."

They wind up next to each other on a chaise, but Emma is in such a daze she can hardly notice.

"You need a break."

"I need to go back," Emma moves to stand. Snow's hands on hers stop her.

"You need rest," Snow insists, sounding every bit like the goddess of the home and hearth and the queen of a formerly crumbling kingdom. Authoritative and warm all at once.

Emma groans reluctantly, but stays still nonetheless.

"They'll be alright for another few moments," Snow's hands tighten around Emma's, a frown forming on her face. It's not a promise she can keep, Emma is sure, but it's one she tries regardless.

"A few minutes," Emma concedes, but her tone makes clear she won't do more than that.

They sit in silence for a beat, both seemingly unsure of what to say, what to do. The past year has been difficult - they're powerful and powerless all at once - and they've both been so swept up in duties that there's hardly room for much else. Snow makes room, David too, but Emma is always rushing off to the next task. The next person, the next village, the next wave of sickness that she can't catch but everyone without godly blood can.

"There's something in the," Snow hesitates, her voice catching, "the air. There's something in the air."

Lightning crackles ominously above the castle, for one. The sound of thunder nearly shakes the walls. Add it to the feeling of death and despair, it's a hard feeling to shake. They've been housing victims of the sickness, putting them under the care of healers and Emma when she's home.

"It's in a lot more than that," Emma manages, her face solemn. She hangs her head.

"You've helped a lot of people," Snow murmurs. It's meant to be reassuring, but it stings all the same.

"Not enough."

"You're doing all you can."

"There's only so many people I can save," Emma rasps out, her heart heavy. Heavy with remorse, heavy with duty, heavy with all of the hearts that stopped beating because she couldn't get to them in time. She tilts her head up to face her mother, her eyes filling with tears. "But it's not _enough_. I'm supposed to be the Savior."

"And you are," Snow reassures her, hands sliding to her shoulders. "You are. But there's only one of you, honey. There's only so much you can do."

"People in our kingdom are dying left and right. I should be able to do," Emma wipes a tear from under her eye. "I should be able to do more. I can't just sit and let that happen."

"And you aren't," Snow insists passionately, grip tightening on her shoulders and forcing her to meet her eyes. "You're helping these people."

There's a tense silence that sits between the two of them.

"Soon I won't have anyone left to help," Emma says finally.

Snow opens her mouth to reply, but the door creaks open before she's able to. They both turn to face the new arrival, finding David at the door drenched in rainwater. He grabs one of the cloths they always have strung around - a match for the crackling fires in every room - and immediately sets on patting himself down so he doesn't leave puddles everywhere.

"Welcome home," Snow says, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

"Hey," David greets with a grin, pressing a kiss to Snow's cheek and then one to the top of Emma's head. "Just got back from the fields. I'm doing my best to protect them, but with the storm there's only -"

"So much you can do," Snow finishes with a knowing, tenuous smile. "I know."

David notices the redness in Emma's eyes, then, and his face falls. "You alright?" he asks, kneeling down so that he's eye level with her. His hand comes up to cup her cheek in a soothing gesture.

Emma nods quickly. "I'm fine. I need to get back to the hall, need to get back to work," she staggers to her feet and David follows. He immediately steadies her, hands on her shoulders. He's getting water all over her, but she can't find it within herself to complain.

"You won't be of use to anyone if you're not taking care of yourself," David frowns.

"Yes," Emma says. "I am taking care of myself. And I will. Alright?"

She's being a little too curt with her father, too harsh. Emma's face falls immediately but David's face is quick to show his forgiveness. Emma leans forward to hug him, arms curling under his and face buried in his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Emma apologizes, her eyes falling shut at the comforting gesture. She breathes in and he smells like wheat and work - everything that the god of harvest is meant to. The scent of rain is less reassuring, more of a sign of the struggle behind, in front of, and ahead of them.

"You have no reason to be," her father assures her, hand cupping her head. "Just be kind to yourself, honey. That's all your mother and I want."

"I'll be kinder as soon as I've done all I can," Emma replies, her heart feeling heavy in her chest. She pulls back to look at her father, swallowing the lump in her throat. He sighs, seeming to accept this is as good as he's going to get. "I'm going to go down to the hall, help who I can. You guys need anything?"

"No," her mother says, still sitting on the chaise. "Just let us know if you do, alright? Water, a helping hand, any of it. Just let us know."

"I will," Emma promises, stepping backwards. Her father gives her a small, encouraging smile. She catches her mother's eye and she mirrors the expression. "I love you both."

"And we love you," her father replies readily.

She sighs, turning around to leave the room.

-/-

Emma is able to heal everyone in the hall, but there are still more suffering in villages that couldn't make it to the castle. She's planning to venture back out tomorrow, try to help who she can. But, even gods get tired. Even their magic ebbs and flows.

Even she gets weary of it all. She clings to the railing of the staircase as she walks upwards, the weakness of expending that much energy taking ahold of her.

Emma sighs, sinking against the door of her bedroom as soon as she enters it. This past year, things only seemed to get worse and worse. Thunder sounds again outside - a storm that seems to be never ending - and she can't help but flinch at the show of lightning through her window. She doesn't understand what the fuck Rumplestiltskin's deal is as of late, but whatever it is all these storms happened around the same time as the sicknesses started to spread.

There's the old wives' tale that rain makes you catch colds. Even if it were true - rarely does it make you catch death.

She bites her lip, considering this for a moment. The rain beats a steady rhythm outside, a relentless tapping that never gives way to silence.

Emma wishes she knew the cause of the sickness that's begun to spread in her kingdom, taking the toll of lives with it. She has her suspicions, sure, given the timing of the storms (storm, really, because it's just one incessant one that strangely never seems to flood more than the crops) and Rumplestiltskin's relative silence. Her parents have done whispering of their own, about what it all could mean and the god of the skies' suspiciousness and the sickness that doesn't spread quite like any other.

Thunder sounds again, this time shaking the ground underneath her feet.

Emma considers it, the aftershocks reverberating through the walls. Rumplestiltskin would obviously be of no help - asking what it all meant when she's sure he has something to do with it. If she wants to know the root cause of death, she's going to have to ask someone who would know. Someone who sees the aftermath rather than just the condition beforehand.

Emma grabs her shoes and her cloak and resolves to head for a vacant temple. She leaves a note to her parents describing her plans, telling them she might be a long while.

-/-

She gets to the temple in three hours, a relatively short ride.

"Hook," Emma says, the name of the god of the Underworld falling from her lips in a reluctant hiss. She doesn't like temples, really, never has. Begging and pleading with the gods hardly seemed to do anyone any good at all - didn't grant a great harvest or good health. She's the Savior, she should know, the daughter of a god and a goddess. Either people are already doing their jobs or they never will. Expecting change from people who live forever is futile.

Asking for answers might not be. Asking for favors is pushing it, but something she's willing to try nonetheless.

As infrequently as she goes to the temple, she can't help but notice this one is collecting dust. There are hardly any of the normal offerings she'd find at the altars of the god of the skies or the seas. No gold, no fruit, no flowers litter the area.

With all the death lately, you would think there would be.

Rumplestiltskin's temple seemed to get all the traffic, these days. Hook was rumored to be cruel and unforgiving, as dark as death itself. Reasoning with him was like trying to catch smoke in your hands - impossible and self-defeating. Legend has it he takes pleasure in torture, basked in blood, laughed in the face of orphans and all the rest. Her parents dislike Rumplestiltskin - always claimed he seemed to have a sinister air - but seemed not to care for Hook much, either. Whether the horror stories are true or not, enough people seem to believe them.

And he could be her only hope.

If there's anything who could have a possible explanation for all the deaths - it's the god of death.

Emma sighs, tapping her foot against the stone of the floor. "Hook," she repeats. "What does a girl have to do to summon a god around here?"

It's goading, she knows, but that's kind of the point.

There's still no response. Emma rolls her eyes. She knows he heard her, she's technically a goddess herself even if she dislikes the label as much as her parents do theirs. The gods always hear each others' summons. He's being stubborn, maybe a little petulant.

Maybe a little too busy getting his kicks from sadism to have much time for the Savior.

A grimace forms on her face. "Third time is a charm. Hook, it might be in your best interest to talk to me."

Still nothing.

Emma huffs in frustration - her hair is damp and sticking to her face and her wet cloak sends a chill to her bones. If he's going to be stubborn, he's going to be stubborn. She turns around to leave, resigning herself to the fact that if she's getting answers, they won't be from him. Emma's boots slosh and she groans, cursing her decision to even come here. The water made it all not worth it, the water -

The water, she remembers. Hook wasn't always Hook, god of the Underworld. He was a pirate before then, lost a hand and came up with the moniker. Tales may range widely in their truthfulness, but she remembers that. A pirate demigod, son of the god of the bottom of the sea. Davy Jones, she thinks was his name.

Jones.

"Killian Jones," she tries, the name lingering in the back of her mind.

"It's about bloody time you got it right," comes an accented voice from behind her. She turns to face him, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Dark haired and wearing a long leather coat, he looks every bit like the darkness he's meant to personify. The metal hook attached to the end of his left arm is hard to miss.

It seems all she needed to summon him was the right name.

His eyes narrow as he takes her in, as if trying to place her. It seems to click into place a moment later. "The Savior," he rasps.

"Emma Swan," she introduces herself, figuring she should start with her real name if she summoned him with his. She won't ask how he knows who she is without having once seen her in her life. There are a lot of things she doesn't understand, questions she needs answered - this one can wait. "I need your help."

"You do?" he asks in surprise, his eyebrows raising.

"I do," Emma repeats.

"Well," Hook sighs. "I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so if you'll be asking for favors I'd like to know quickly."

"I want to know why people are dying like this. It isn't normal, for any sickness, to kill mortals like this. And it isn't normal for storms to last this long," Emma answers. Thunder sounds outside the temple, further illustrating her point. "I just want to know what's going on so I can stop it."

His brow furrows. "You're asking the wrong god, lass. I'm hardly in control of storms or sickness. I can honestly say I have no bloody clue."

"But you know death," Emma says bluntly. "You know death, you get to see the dead, talk to the dead. If there's any way we can figure out what's happening here, it's by starting there."

"Why not bother Rumplestiltskin?" his mouth curls around the name, spitting it out as if it's poison.

Emma digests that, for a moment. "He'd hardly be forthcoming."

"And I would be?" Hook questions, eyes narrowing into thin blue slits.

Emma stares right back at him, unperturbed. "You have more skin in the game. The dying affect you pretty directly. I don't think you know why, but maybe…"

She bites her lip, considering this. Hook doesn't seem to know any more than she does, if he did she'd be able to see through one of his lies by now. And as much as he hates Rumplestiltskin, she doubts he'd waste the air it took to defend him from such accusations. But there has to be some truth in the Underworld, has to be a clue of what's going on - the dead have to know something even if the living and the immortal don't.

Hook groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe what?"

Emma comes up with an idea, then. It may be a stupid, ridiculous idea. But she's desperate, the situation is desperate, and she won't have the blood of her people on her hands. "Take me to the Underworld with you."

The words leave her mouth in a rush.

Hook looks at her as if she's grown a second head. "And why the bloody hell would you want to do that?"

"I just need to ask some questions, figure out what I can," Emma insists, pleading with him. "I can't help my people if I don't know what the hell is wrong with them. I can heal one at a time, but if I'm to cut off the source of the sickness entirely, then-"

"Why not ask the mortals you've healed?"

"Don't you think I've tried that?" Emma says, trying to make him understand. Understand her need to do this, understand how much these people need help. "There's only so much they know. There's no common water source, there's nothing that they're doing in particular to cause this. Everyone is just getting sick all at once and there's - there's nothing connecting it. Maybe it's something towards the end of that sickness, maybe it's something that someone realizes right when they die, I don't know."

"So what," Hook retorts, looking unimpressed. "You think because your parents are some minor gods who have decided that they're too humble for Olympus -"

"Rich, coming from you," Emma cocks her head to the side, squinting at him.

He just rolls his eyes. "Right, and you're loquacious to boot. Moving back on the path I was on before you interrupted - you think because you have some godly blood in you that means you can ask for a bloody tour of my domain?"

"I'm not asking for a tour," Emma retorts. "I'm asking for answers. I just want to stay there for a little bit so I can get a clue of what the hell is happening."

"And what do I get out of it, hm?" he proposes, his eyebrows raising. Hook brings a hand up to his lips, eyeing her speculatively. "Your servitude for all eternity or something along those lines?"

"Something along those lines," Emma grits out. "You get less people flooding your _domain_."

"And if I happen to like the company?"

"You don't," she answers dryly. "Too many people to judge, less hours to do...whatever it is your hobbies consist of."

"Maybe judgement fulfills me, perhaps that's all the hobby I need," Hook challenges.

"It doesn't."

Hook frowns, considering this for a moment. His eyes stay on hers. "You care an awful lot about mortals, don't you?"

It's hard for her to fathom why people wouldn't.

"The way things are going, I can't..." she steadies her voice, trying to compose herself. "I can't stop people from dying. It's like trying to reverse a current."

"Sea metaphor," he snorts. "Charming."

"From the man that wanted to be god of the sea?" she raises her eyebrows.

Hook balks, at that. It seems as if she hit a nerve. Emma is relieved the rumors at least got that much right - he predates her parents by a few centuries so it's always difficult to tell. "You shouldn't listen to every story you hear."

"I don't," Emma crosses her arms. "If I did I wouldn't have even bothered coming here - what with being unable to interrupt your ritual blood sacrifice."

Hook gives her a light, smug sort of smile. "Who says you didn't, love?"

"You look pretty bloodless."

"Perhaps I don't like getting my hands, well," he lifts up his namesake glibly, " _hand_ dirty. I have enough servants, lass. I hardly need you."

"You'll need a lot more if the flow of people keeps coming in like this," Emma reminds him curtly.

"All the more to get assistance from, eh?" he smirks, but Emma can see through the bravado easily enough.

"Please," Emma scoffs. "The boats get full and the people get restless."

"And what do you know of the Underworld? I don't believe you've ever been there," Hook replies, sounding bored as he leans up against one of the stone walls of the temple. "You'd do well not to speak on things you know nothing about."

"And do I?" she presses.

His brow furrows in confusion. "Do you what?"

"Do I know nothing?"

He takes a beat to answer, an odd expression coming over his face. Hook's mouth forms a hard line and he just stares at her for a moment, eyes carefully examining her. Searching for something, whether that be a hint of what she knows.

"You're a goddess, after all," he admits, cocking his head to the side. "You have to know something. What that something is needn't relate to the Underworld."

Emma huffs, grimacing. This line of conversation isn't getting her anywhere. "Here's something I know: you don't like Rumplestiltskin."

"Careful," he grins tightly, tapping his ear then gesturing to the ceiling above him. "Wouldn't want to upset the omnipresent and omnipotent."

"Gods can't eavesdrop in the temples of other gods, now can they?" Emma states. She knows this well enough, it's why her parents have always been so free with information. It's their castle - they refuse to call it a temple - so he can't hear them unless he's standing in front of them.

Hook chuckles, shaking his head. "Smart lass."

"There's your motivation," Emma says simply. "If making your life a living hell - well, bad analogy - if making your job miserable isn't enough of a reason for you to let me see what's going on for myself, let pissing off Rumplestiltskin be."

Killian seems to ponder that, for a moment, fingers scratching behind his ear. "You drive a hard bargain."

"Then do we have a deal?" Emma proposes, her hand coming up in front of her. An offer for him to shake, to cement their agreement.

Killian just stares at her hand, expression torn.

"C'mon," Emma goads, smiling slightly and holding it out a little further. "It's not going to hurt you. It's just a handshake. Do we have a deal or not?"

Hook brings his hand up to hers and she can't help but notice how it shakes, just a little. It hovers just inches away from where her fingers are reaching out, as if he's hesitant just to take that final reach. "What will the people here do without their Savior?" he asks finally, his voice low. "What will they do when they have no one to heal them?"

Emma's face falls.

"That's what I thought," Hook murmurs, lowering his hand once more.

"I -" she clears her throat, steadying herself enough to say the words. "More people will die whether I heal them or not. If I don't figure out why, even I can't save everyone."

It stings to say - stings to picture the time she's running against, every life she'll lose while she's away. But it's what she has to decide, what she has to do. Either Emma can watch person after person die or she can stop it at the source. Emma made her decision.

Her eyes flicker from his eyes to his hand. Hook seems to finally get the point, hand finally, slowly coming up to encase hers. Hook stands stock still, closing his eyes as if he's waiting for something.

Something he doesn't seem to find when he opens his eyes again.

"I can't see anything," he frowns down at their joined hands, thumb skimming over the back of hers.

Emma's expression turns confused, her forehead wrinkling and her face pinching. "What, did my hand blind you?"

"No," he shakes his head quickly, hand withdrawing from hers. "No, I suppose it's a god thing, you can only...only mortals."

Emma is very quickly wondering who the hell exactly she just requested help from. She raises her eyebrows, baffled. "Okay, then."

He nods, swallowing. Hook looks around at their surroundings - his bare, abandoned temple - and taps his foot against the stone. "I can only spend so much time up here, lass, and only in this temple. I don't suppose you'd like to leave now?"

"That was the idea," Emma shrugs. "Do you need to make arrangements or something?"

"Not at all," Hook shakes his head. He stares up at the ceiling, studying the patterns in the marble. "Staying for a few days, then. I think I can manage that."

His eyes return to hers, a concession of sorts.

"Do you need to make arrangements?" he asks.

Emma's thoughts go to her parents, of the worry they'd be filled with if she didn't return home soon. She focuses, for a moment, thinking of the note she left back home and imagining adjusting it, rewriting it according to her current, albeit haphazard, plans. Magic from this length away is always tricky, expending energy she doesn't often have, but she's not going to be be doing any healing for at least the next few hours. Emma wrinkles her face in concentration, willing her magic to work with her. She feels a pull from a long distance away and feels like it has.

"Done," she breathes out, nodding. "Let's do this."

"The advantages of being a goddess," he snorts, shaking his head. "Oh, the misery you could put me in…"

Emma can hear the teasing in his voice, but there's an underlying edge to it that's recognizable to keen ears.

"Remember," she offers, "you're likely going to annoy Rumplestiltskin with this. And there isn't much he can do about it."

Hook chuckles. "Quite right, then," he holds out his hand, much like she did before. It still shakes, just a little. "Take my hand."

He grins and she can't help but take note of the fact he has prominent dimples, as uncomfortable as he looks now. It's as if he's not used to interaction like this, not used to innocuous touches and acknowledgement that he's someone to ask for, someone who _can_ help. Emma remembers enough loneliness from her earlier years - when her parents had to give her up when she was a baby, leaving her alone with powers she didn't understand while they had to fight off a goddess with a grudge against the both of them - to recognize it in him.

She remembers the way it made her feel, the way it still makes her feel sometimes. The Underworld must be a lonely place and it shows in him, in his slight hesitance and discomfort. He's a bit prickly on the outside, defensive and challenging, but Emma knows enough from experience to recognize it for what it is. Guardedness built from years of being alone.

Emma sighs. She isn't here to analyze the mind of the god of the Underworld, she's here to help her people. She takes his hand, fingers clasping around his. Hook's hand steadies in hers. He pulls her forward, just a bit, until they're nose to nose.

"Might want to hang on," he suggests with a grin. His breath fans across her face. She's still damp from the rain, hair only barely drying and clothes heavy. This - he - warms her just the slightest bit.

She rolls her eyes, but holds on tighter all the same.

"On the count of three," Hook murmurs, his eyes fixed on hers.

"Okay," she agrees, feeling a pang of nervousness in her gut.

"One…" he begins, his voice nearly a whisper, "Two...three."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey, it's an update! I have good news and bad news - good news is that this is done! And over 8k, which is way longer than I intended. Bad news is my personal life is kind of a clusterfuck as of late, so I only had so much time to write and so much inspiration...so I will try very, very hard to get the S &C chapter out by tomorrow. It might come Thursday or Friday though, but I will try very, very hard. **

**Thank you so much for reading. I hope you guys like it!**

-/-

The Underworld doesn't traditionally have guests. It has occupants. Those who stay there and those who may never leave. Either they're dead or chained by duty, the place is hardly a tourist destination. It's where the dead go after they die, hardly where mortals hope to visit.

Then again, the Savior is hardly a mortal.

They end up in his home - as home as a place of residence that isn't the Jolly Roger can be - hands still intertwined. Emma blinks around at her surroundings, green eyes in a daze at the sudden change, and he can't hold back his slight grin at how mystified she seems by it all.

"My humble abode," he announces, hand leaving hers to gesture sweepingly at his surroundings. Everything is wooden, the floors and the furniture and the paneling of the ceilings. If he couldn't have his ship, he made his home as close to it as possible. Paintings cover the walls, works from those in the Asphodel Meadows and the Elysian Fields. Trinkets are found on shelves and tables, intentionally reminiscent of what his surroundings looked like on his ship.

Killian misses his home, his real home, with a ferocity that stings.

Her lips curve into a slight smile. "The Underworld doesn't look much different from earth, huh?"

"No," he admits, eyes lingering on where maps litter his desk. "I suppose it doesn't."

Emma drinks the words in thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the room. "Is the rest of the Underworld like this?"

"Not exactly," he shakes his head. "It ranges widely. This place is within the Asphodel Meadows, a mirror of your world," what used to be his world, as well, but he swallows the thought. "People live here much as they did above, neither completely good nor completely bad. Aside from grand acts of heroism or atrocities, most mortals tend to find themselves here."

"And you chose here," Emma murmurs, eyeing him speculatively. She looks around at his home with the same sort of scrutiny. "I pictured this differently, your home."

"What? You expected me to live in a dungeon?"

"Well, you know the way stories spread. A torture chamber I was thinking, maybe, but not…" her eyes flitter across the room some more, lingering on the blankets thrown over chairs and the paintings. "This is homey, I think. It's nice."

Killian shrugs, hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. "It does the job. Erm, it's a great deal more pleasant than Tartarus."

Emma's interest is evidently piqued. "And that's...flames burning and wheels spinning, right?"

"Not quite. It's your own…" he sighs. "You make your bed and you lie in it. Face the direct consequences of your actions, the fall out. Feel the pain you've caused. The grief of families, the violation, all of that. It's a mirror of sorts in its own right, but a twisted one. I don't venture there if I can help it."

"And who is there?" Emma prompts. "Murderers?"

"A special kind of murderers and those who commit crimes of similar deplorability," Killian explains. "Those who hurt children, who hurt the powerless, all that. Show no tinge of remorse in the slightest - the worst sort of hedonists."

"Oh," Emma murmurs. "I knew the gist, of the Asphodel Meadows and the Elysian Fields and Tartarus, but the explanation is nice. There's a lot people get wrong, and if I'm going to try to figure out what's going on in my world…"

"You need to get the general idea," Killian nods. "Aye."

He takes a look at a clock in the corner of the room and groans.

"What?" Emma asks, perplexed.

"I've got to do judgements," Killian sighs. "Duty calls. Let me get through this batch before the boats come and I'll try to help you find who you're looking for - aye?"

"Fair enough," Emma concedes. "Mind if I watch? Maybe some of the people who are most recently dead," she frowns at the word, "know something."

Killian grimaces, considering this. "I know all they know, Swan."

Emma looks at him in disbelief. "And how do you know that?"

He sighs, glancing at the clock once more. "I've got to make haste. You'll see when we get there, aye?"

Hook sets his hand on her shoulder before she can reply, thinking of where he needs to be and appearing there a second later.

Emma still seems just as surprised by the change of scene this time around, immediately stepping back from his touch. He sighs, eyes going to the front doors and dearly hoping he can settle this quickly. Smee can only hold them back for so long, with other assistants he trusted even less. Given how little he trusts Smee, that's truly saying something. Smee can at least get the mortals from point A to point B - though, admittedly, Charon is more effective at it - without too much of a fuss.

At least, he does so daily, at this exact time.

"That's handy," Emma remarks, eyes flitting across the stone of the throne room. It's a relic of the king before him, the room, cold and unwelcoming. "You appear where you want to, huh?"

"Just in the Underworld and my temple - a domain this vast requires a bit of assistance to travel," Killian explains with a shrug, settling in his throne. He hears knocking at the door, likely Smee in all of his irritating insistence, and calls back at the source. "Give me a bloody minute, Smee! I'll tell you when to start."

Emma just lifts her brows at the yelling, crossing her arms around herself in a way that's innately regal.

(He can't help but notice that she's much more fit for royalty than he - with her long white dress and firm posture and monarch parents. A natural goddess, she is. Killian is miming at best - a demigod trying to be a king and barely able to do his job.)

"You want a chair?" he offers, eyeing how she uncomfortably stands, straight as a rod, next to him. "I can get you a chair, love."

"I'm fine," she replies stiffly, not moving in the slightest.

He barely holds back a laugh, lifting both hand and hook up in a conciliatory gesture. "Suit yourself, love."

Smee walks into the room, just then, looking frazzled. His eyes widen dramatically at the sight of Emma at his side, unused to Killian having any sort of, well - company. At least, not after Milah. The thought makes Killian's agitation grow further, the reminder of what he's lost and what he's spent centuries without. Emma - the Savior - is just here to settle her little heroic quest and go back to her quaint little existence back in her world.

"Who is this?" Smee asks, gaping at Emma.

Killian sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "None of your bloody business, mate. Now, start bringing the mortals in. If I want to be done with this at a reasonable time, I-"

"I know, I know," Smee replies quickly, already receding back to the door. "I'll be quick."

He casts one last cautious look to Emma, who only stares right back at him in confusion.

"That one of your servants?" she asks, once Smee leaves through the door.

"Something like that," Killian says. A man enters, then, taking a few hesitant steps towards the two of them. Mid-forties, average height, the same look of slight trepidation on his face as he edges towards them that Killian knows all too well. "Come on in, sir. Don't let us scare you off."

The man - although he's surely never seen this room in his life (or death, for that matter) - eyes Emma with some confusion. "What's the Savior doing here?"

She's quite the recognizable figure, it seems. Wonderful.

"I'm," Emma begins, but she evidently didn't think of a proper excuse beforehand. "I'm here...helping?"

Emma may be many things, but an effective liar isn't one of them. Killian sighs, gesturing for the man to come forward. He holds out his hand for him to take, palm upwards. "Don't concern yourself with her, aye? Let's settle this in a timely fashion, shall we? Just shake my hand and I'll tell you where you need to be."

The man does so with some reluctance, still eyeing Emma curiously. Killian feels the usual flow of memories, transmitting through their hands in the blink of an eye.

The man fell ill in the middle of tilling his farm, coughs wracking his body and leaving him bedridden days later. His mother passed a good decade ago, his father just days beforehand. He doesn't have any children.

Killian lets go of the man's hand without a fuss. "Asphodel Meadows, for you. The door on the middle should take you where you need to be," he gestures with his thumb behind the chair, "have a safe journey, mate. Your parents are there too, if I recall correctly, I wish you a lovely reunion."

The man gapes at him for a moment, then back at her, before staggering forward.

Not even a thank-you passes his lips before he opens the door.

Explains why he wasn't Elysian Fields material, at least. Killian sighs, mourning the death of decorum for a brief moment.

"How do you do that?" Emma asks, puzzled, once the man has left the room.

"Do what?" Killian asks, grabbing the journal next to the throne and marking down the man's name with a quill from the table next to him. Hades never kept records, it seems, but Killian is a stickler to these sorts of things. "Decide?"

"Yeah," Emma says, "how do you get all that from a handshake?"

Killian purses his lips together, letting the leather journal fall shut. He sets the quill back down on the table. "You get certain powers transferred to you when you rule over this realm. In order to make a decision, I have to know who these people are. Their lives, their decisions, where their heart lies - no matter how long I converse with them I can't get that out of them very easily. The mortals touch me, I can see all I need to make a decision."

"Kind of an invasion of privacy," Emma notes.

Killian sighs. "Either that or they don't pass on. A price one should be willing to pay. I don't give a damn about their personal affairs, I just want to know where to put them."

"I see," Emma quirks a brow, lips curling into a slight smile. Her expression turns thoughtful, after a moment. "That's why you were so hesitant to take my hand."

"Aye," Killian answers after a moment of pause. "That's why. I didn't exactly fancy seeing your entire life story, prefer to keep my exchanges with a bit more mystery."

"Of course," she mutters. "It's just mortals then? That would explain why it didn't work for me, at least."

"Aye," he nods, a quick motion of his head. Killian's hand tightens on the arm of the throne, just a bit. "It is. I can hardly pass judgement on fellow gods, aye?"

Though he's as much god as he is mortal, so it hardly makes a difference.

"But you knew I was a goddess," Emma presses, her forehead furrowing and her nose wrinkling in confusion. "Why be so hesitant to make my hand?"

It's quite easy to forget things like loopholes and minor rules when he hasn't touched another god or goddess in centuries - the only contact he's had with dead mortals, even, was just -

Killian sighs. "It's a long story, love. Nothing to worry yourself over now."

Emma looks at him contemplatively for a moment before redirecting her gaze behind him. Killian lets out a sigh of relief.

"What happens if they go through the wrong door?" Emma asks, quickly changing the subject. "Say you say right and they think you mean left - you have someone in two very different extremes."

"The two are rare enough, I make sure to have someone escort them," Killian shrugs. "Either I do or Smee does. Just to make sure no egregious errors are made."

"Huh," Emma murmurs contemplatively, eyes darting back to the doors. "Good to know."

"Planning on staying?" Killian asks lightly, grinning up at her where she stands at his side. She makes quite the picture, he must admit, her light hair flowing down her back and her long dress reaching the stone of his floor. It's a stark contrast to the rest of the darkness, with no windows letting even false sunlight in. The fire of the torches are the only thing illuminating the place.

The previous owner of this building, of this realm, was a bit more melodramatic, it seems.

(Who knew such a feat was even possible?)

"No," Emma replies curtly. "I just want to make sure no one is accidentally going into torture pits. Or torturers are ruining paradise for everyone."

"I'm not quite that foolish, love," he retorts, a grin forming on his face as he looks up at her. "Surely you must give me more credit than that."

Emma sends him a dubious look. Killian resists the temptation to laugh. He's interrupted, again, by more urgent knocking. Killian groans, leaning back in his throne and rubbing at the beard on his chin. "Send them in, Smee!"

"Sorry, your highness!" Smme apologies before ushing in yet another man.

"Sure you don't want to sit?" Killian asks, eyes going back to Emma. "It's going to be a long day, love."

"I'm fine," Emma insists stubbornly.

Killian shakes his head in faint amusement. He was half expecting her to demand a throne as soon as she walked into the room, but this woman - goddess - is full of surprises. Fiery and determined - certainly not without an air of authority - but unwilling to allow herself a comfort as simple as a place to sit.

The Savior, indeed.

-/-

It's disheartening, Emma thinks, to go see the faces of dozens of the newly dead.

Even more disheartening when they're not helpful in the slightest. It's a terrible thing to think - much too terrible for her to say - but it pains her nonetheless. Not knowing how many more will die, how many more faces will follow because she doesn't know what's causing them to die in the first place. She asks Killian, after every guest (he calls them guests, which she thinks is ridiculous, considering they're hardly temporary visitors - but he insists that it's the remnants of his good manners kicking in) if there's something in their memories that seems significant. That ties their cause of death back to one common source, one common thread - _anything_.

But they all just fall sick doing what's normal, doing what every villager does. One second they're healthy - some of them she even recognizes from healing in the past - and the next they're sick. And there's nothing, no strike of lightning or one storm cloud in particular hanging over their heads, that connects the path that led them all to the Underworld.

"I told you I didn't know anything," Killian says gruffly, after yet another mortal moves on to where they belong.

(They belong on earth, they belong with their families, they don't belong in the Underworld this soon.)

Emma sighs heavily, her lips fixed in a downwards arc. "I know. I know you did," she grimaces. "I just...I hoped."

"Ah," Killian mutters darkly - the deaths must getting under his skin as well, despite his centuries of experience with the subject - and reaches into his leather coat to grasp for a flask. He open it with his teeth and the cork falls somewhere on the marble floor before he brings it to his lips. "That's your mistake, then, hoping."

"Seriously?" Emma gapes, eyes fixed on the flask. "Drinking on the job?"

"The only one doing any judging here," Killian replies, swallowing just before he begins speaking, "is me. You face all this incessantly, you'd find your own ways to cope."

"Yeah, well," Emma leans over to take the flask from his grip, scowling at it before tucking it into her cloak, "drinking _impairs_ judgement, as you should know. How many people have you sentenced while drunk, huh?"

Any trace of teasing in her tone is gone, replaced with earnest anger. The god of the Underworld, sipping rum in between sending mortals to where they'll be for the rest of eternity. Sure, Emma is no stranger to the wonders of wine and drink - she has a tolerance that would make Will, the god of wine and festivities, a little proud. The idea of it potentially interfering with the fates of mortals, though, makes her worry. Emma already hasn't done enough to save them from being sentenced here in the first place, the least she can do is make sure they end up where they need to without the outside influence of fucking _fermented molasses_.

The helplessness she feels creeping in her gut, in her heart, can at least be somewhat alleviated by this.

"It's never much," Killian protests defensively, glaring at her then at where his rum is hidden underneath her cloak. "You'd do well to remember you're here because I let you be, not here to criticize my methods."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Please, Killian, don't be -"

"Killian?" he raises his eyebrows at the name. "I thought it was Hook?"

She narrows her eyes, face scrunching as she considers his words. Emma finally lifts her hands in frustration, groaning. She hands the flask back to him and he tucks it into his coat. "Drink on your own time, Hook, Killian, or whatever the hell you want to be called. I just don't want you think someone who is meant for the Asphodel Meadows is Tartarus material after a few drinks or a mass murderer is perfect for the Elysian Fields."

It's Killian's turn to roll his eyes this time. He brings his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"And you're not nearly as charming as you think you are," Emma retorts sharply.

"Your majesty?" a man's - Smee, she thinks his name was - voice filters through the door of the judgement room. He walks in through the door hesitantly, as if afraid to meet the ire of his king. "I have one more for you."

Killian groans, slumping back in his throne some more. The god of the Underworld seems to be prone to dramatics. "Bring them in. Anyone else who comes is waiting today is waiting, aye?"

"Where are they waiting?" Emma asks, her nose wrinkling. The thought of people who have been through so much forced to line up outside to await their judgement leaves a distinctly sour taste in her mouth.

Killian sighs, gesturing somewhere westward. "Just a place for them to rest, beds for them to sleep in. It's well taken care of, as much as you assume that I'm mistreating the lot-"

"I'm not assuming anything," Emma rebuts, her fingers curling into her forearm. Her arms are still crossed, her stance defiant. "I just want to make sure-"

"You want to make sure you're doing your bloody Savior duties and bringing fire to the mortals as if you're Prometheus himself, I'm aware. Can't have your heroism marred by the likes of me, can you?"

Smee's eyes dart between the two of them and he gulps in obvious discomfort. "Ah, bring him in then?" he tries, valiantly, to change the subject.

Both Emma and Killian sigh, eyes going back to the door instead of at each other as they trade barbs. Emma straightens her back, trying to school her expression so she doesn't seem quite as irritated. Killian doesn't even try, just sulks on his throne.

This is the man she's trusting to help her, the centuries old deity pouting like a child. It's just Emma's luck, really.

"Yes," Killian replies, looking to Smee. "Let him in."

Smee quickly scurries to the door - as if trying to put distance between himself and the two of them - and lets in the last mortal awaiting judgement of the day. Emma's heart immediately drops to the pit of her stomach at the sight of him, a small child who can't be any older than five or six. Killian's hand tightens on the arm of his chair and his brow furrows when her eyes flicker to him, but he quickly schools his features by the time she looks away.

The boy - with messy hair and wide eyes - puts one foot in front of the other, slowly. He looks so lost, so small it makes Emma's heart ache in her chest. The fact that death can take something that hasn't had much of a chance to live at all is horrifying, making her wish immortality wasn't as rare of a gift if it meant kids like this didn't have to end up here in such a short span of time.

"Hello, lad," Killian greets, voice softer than she's ever heard it. "I'm sorry you had to come here so soon."

The boy just freezes in place and frowns, eyeing Killian with trepidation. His eyes go to her for a moment and Emma offers him a small, encouraging smile. "It's okay," she reassures him, though her throat feels thick and the words have difficulty leaving her mouth. It's not okay, not acceptable that death has to take children who can't even wrap their heads around the concept. She has to do something, anything, to make sure more kids like this don't end up in this situation. "It's alright."

Killian, for his part, takes off his coat. It's a small gesture, just one more bit of intimidation stripped away from him, but it seems to be effective all the same. The boy walks some more until he's right in front of the throne, his tiny features unsure and somewhat confused.

"What might your name be?" Killian asks, peering down at him and leaning forward until his chest is flush with his knees and he's eye-level with the kid.

The boy hesitates, but seems to find his bravery. "Roland," he says, the word barely audible.

"It's very nice to meet you, Roland. I'm Killian," he introduces himself quietly, not adding any sort of official title with it. God of the Underworld, king of it to boot - none of it seems to matter to him at the moment. He motions to Emma. "This is Emma, she's here helping me. We can get you where you need to be, aye?"

"Hi Roland," Emma says with a small wave, crouching down until she's at his eye level, as well. She offers her hand out for him to shake, but can't help but notice how her own hand shakes just the same. Her touch is supposed to be warm to mortals, healing. If she can provide the poor kid with a sliver of comfort, she'll do it. "Killian is right, it's very nice to meet you."

Roland takes her hand easily, giving it a small shake and making a smile light up on Emma's face. He smiles back, with tiny dimples on small cheeks, and she can feel her heart breaking in two at the sight.

It's not fair. None of it is.

Emma gives him a hug, to boot, and he easily slips in her arms. She looks over his shoulder at Killian, whose expression is almost tender at the scene. "Killian is going to help you get where you need to be, okay? All you have to do is shake his hand just like you did mine, alright?"

Roland nods against her neck, still taciturn. He's a shy kid, it seems, not one for words. Given his circumstance, it's understandable.

Emma lets him go with a watery smile that she hopes is reassuring. She motions to where Killian is sitting feet from her and Roland turns to face him. Emma stands up again, lingering by the throne.

Killian holds out his hand with a coaxing smile, his eyes light and kind. It's not something she's expecting from him, though he's hardly been cruel to the mortals that have passed through. She's been expecting for the other shoe to drop, for more evidence that he's - in some way - what he's been made out to be. It's unfair, sure, to hold these slight prejudices, but they're there all the same.

They're being worn away by the minute, though.

Roland takes his hand after a brief moment of hesitation. Killian closes his eyes, absorbing his memories with a brush of his thumb over the back of the boy's hand.

"The Elysian Fields," he murmurs, opening his eyes to grin at the boy. "As I suspected, truthfully. You've been a very brave, very strong, very good lad."

The big, mean god of the Underworld - gatekeeper of hell and punishment enforcer - encouraging a child and promising him paradise.

"Elysian?" Roland asks, his eyes wide. "It doesn't have to hurt anymore?"

Emma could cry at the words, spoken so matter-of-factly that it almost makes her knees buckle. Kids were always the first she healed if she could help it, always the first her parents brought into the castle when they feared they'd fallen ill or just didn't have enough food in their bellies.

 _She_ was a kid, once, surviving on scraps and unaware of her own divinity. Her parents, as bitter as she was for years about them attempting to hide her so she wouldn't be at risk of being harmed by Regina, spent decades making it up to her in how much they cared for her and the mortals around them. Their people, she was always taught, were the most important thing. To help mortals - especially the young ones - in whatever way she could. That was their duty, their responsibility, what they were given powers to do.

Her father had an upbringing like hers, to an extent - he lived with his mortal mother and didn't know he was a god until Rumplestiltskin found him and let him know of his duties. His father was long gone, abandoned him without a second thought, and David had no one to teach him anything about who he was or what he was meant for. He accepted the title reluctantly, or so he told Emma in the numerous stories he's shared with her. He was a shepherd, so he helped with the harvest.

Snow White grew up in a castle with two deities for parents - not on Olympus, of course, because that was exclusively Rumplestiltskin's domain - until her mother was killed in some sort of tragic accident. Her father decided to move on with the goddess of discord - Regina - and things took a turn for the worst when Regina fell in love with a mortal stableboy. Once Regina's mother heard of the affair from Snow, when she was _only ten years old_ , she killed the mortal.

And Regina hated Snow ever since then, stealing bolts of lightning (Snow was never convinced they were stolen so much as borrowed with permission, but she was always careful when speaking of Rumpelstiltskin) and trying to hunt her down. She killed Snow's father and forced Snow to spend her life on the run.

That is, until Snow White robbed David's carriage one day and they chased each other around and fell madly in love. That was the beginning of her parents' love story. Torn apart by divine intervention, they fought tooth and nail to be together, to keep each other and their daughter safe.

They've taught her what this responsibility means, taught her to feel hurt when others are hurting. Kids, especially, were people to be taken care of, to cherish, to heal. Minimizing suffering for them was the priority, so hearing of this kid's suffering…

It's nothing short of painful.

Emma sees something similar in Killian's eyes, a flicker of pain that he quickly masks, and wonders if he has a similar philosophy. Towards kids, towards duties, towards what they have to do as gods and goddesses to make life as painless as possible for people who don't have the powers they do.

"Aye, lad," he nods gently. "It doesn't have to hurt anymore. The Elysian Fields are a good place to be. No pain, no suffering - just peace. And you," Killian swallows, hard."You will fit just fine there. Your mother is there, you know."

By Killian's words and interactions, she thinks he might share her views. Maybe she judged Killian a little too quickly. But, to be fair, she hardly has the benefit of being able to see his memories.

Emma can see something, though, in the way he treats Roland.

Roland considers this for a moment, his eyes contemplative. He keeps his small hand on Killian's, though, and ends up reaching his arms around his neck and hugging him. Killian lets out a chuckle of surprise, a sound that surprises her with its warmth, moving his hand to pat his back reassuringly.

"There we are, lad," he coos gently, lifting him up so that he rests on top of his lap. "You're my last judgement of the day, you know. We'll get you back to your mother in no time."

Emma can't hold back her smile at that and leans forward to ruffle Roland's hair. "The Underworld rewards goodness, you know. If your mother is there, she was as big of a hero as you are."

Killian grins softly in response. "Aye. I remember her, sacrificed herself to save her family. It'll be nice to be able to properly reunite the two of them. You remember your mother, Roland?"

He nods slowly, his eyes hopeful. "A little. Papa tells me a lot about her."

"Hopefully it'll be a little while before you father joins you," Killian murmurs, his hand patting Roland's back. "You will be reunited one day, I'm sure. From the glimpses I've caught, your father shares the same heroism. I'm sure he misses you very much, but he'll be very happy you're safe. Are you ready to go meet your mother again?"

Roland nods, gripping Killian's vest.

"Your majesty?" Smee's voice filters in the room once more as he opens the door. He seems unphased by the sight of Killian with a child on his lap. "Need me to do anything for you?"

"No, Smee," Killian assures him, standing up and lifting the boy with him. He settles him on his hip in an easy movement, hook carefully pointed away from him.

"You sure?" Smee asks.

"I'll take him myself," Killian murmurs the words, but they hold their insistence all the same. His hand tightens on the boy's back. "That will be all, Smee. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, your majesty."

"See you tomorrow," Killian sighs, balancing the boy in his arms carefully. Roland seems to return to taciturn, burying his face in Killian's shoulder. Emma makes a face to get the boy to smile when he meets her eyes and garners a giggle when she sticks her tongue out. Killian chuckles at the sound, turning around to face Emma who quickly puts her tongue back in her mouth.

"Having fun?" he asks her, raising his eyebrows with a smirk.

"Trying to keep your company entertained," Emma replies, grinning.

Smee looks between the two of them with something like suspicion, his eyes narrowing as he walks through the door and closes it behind him.

"I best get the lad off to Elysian," Killian says, his eyes carefully trained on hers. "Should only be a few moments."

"I'll be here," Emma assures him. "I promise I won't burn the place down in your absence."

"It's fireproof, anyway. Future Taratus occupants have never been particularly pleased with me, it's a bit necessary to ensure that it's protected."

"Noted," Emma says. Her eyes go back to Roland, who twists his head around to face her. She gives him a little wave. "Bye, Roland."

"Goodbye, Emma," he replies.

Killian starts walking towards the door to the Elysian Fields, holding Roland as he laces his hook through the handle. He tugs the door open and he's gone, much like she's watched people disappear to the Asphodel Meadows. She hasn't seen any future Taratus occupants yet - apparently both Elysian and Tartarus are rare judgements, reserved for the very few - but Emma is sure it's only a matter of time.

She's curious to see how Killian would handle those fated for Tartarus - how it would contrast with how he dealt with other mortals.

Emma sighs, standing still for a moment, trying to absorb it all. She hears a firm knocking on the door of the throne room and stiffens until she recognizes the voice at the other side.

"Your majesty?"

Smee's voice is easily recognizable, given how much she's heard it through the door today. Emma just ignores it, reasoning that Killian should be back soon enough to deal with whatever he wants. She's not anxious to face the awkward exchange that's sure to ensue if she opens the door.

Smee's insistent knocking continues all the same until Emma finally huffs and approaches the door to open it. He clearly doesn't expect her on the other side,

"Right," he says, as if this is a fact he should have realized much sooner. "Of course, the king always…"

Smee trails off before he can finish his sentence, the words unintelligible in his muttering. Emma frowns, cocking her head to the side. "Always what? Didn't he just tell you to go home?"

"Well, yes," Smee sighs, hand coming up to scrub his face. "I just wanted to check if…"

He eyes her a little suspiciously, eyes meeting hers for a second before flitting away.

"What?" Emma asks, amused. "You think I'm out to get the big bad king?"

"You're a goddess," he mutters, "I can tell."

"Okay," Emma replies, brow furrowing. "And he's a god. I'm not seeing the worry, here."

"He doesn't typically have guests over like this, you know," Smee explains, tugging his red cap down further. "It's very unusual for him. Just does judgements, goes home - it's been that way for centuries. Well, except for -"

He cuts himself off, paling.

"You're talkative," Emma observes, crossing her arms and leaning up against the door. "Don't worry about Killian, we're just...working together on...something."

It's a vague answer, but the best she can offer that isn't _'we're teaming up to find out why mortals are dying and think it probably has something to do with the most powerful god out there'_. She's doing her best, really.

"What's with all the knocking?" Emma asks, changing the subject. "Why not just walk in?"

Smee shrugs. "Says he doesn't like to have his privacy violated. Doesn't trust me much, I don't think, even after all we've been through."

Emma's brow furrows. "All you've been through working for him here, right?"

"Here," Smee agrees, "as well as on his ship."

"His ship?" Emma echoes, confused. She knew Killian wasn't always the god of the Underworld, has heard enough stories. He was once terrorizing the seven seas as a demigod, apparently, with no duties to speak of and just the sea in his blood. The tales of Captain Hook are nearly as well known as the stories of the gatekeeper of the Underworld - all spoken with an underlying menace and fear. The pirate who is reaping the souls of mortals is easy to paint in a bad light.

Killian is many things, sure. A pain in the ass, definitely. Someone who drinks when he shouldn't, surely. A heartless scoundrel who takes pleasure from making mortals miserable?

Obviously not, if the fact that Killian has been treating mortals with care the entire length of time she's been here. She can't picture the man who just coddled a child in his lap, carrying it off to paradise because he didn't trust anyone else to do it, as the dark, twisted figure that some rumors make him out to be. Not anymore than she can envision Rumplestiltskin as a kind, benevolent figure when she suspects he's killing mass amounts of innocent people.

"We've known each other a very long time," Smee eyes her distrustfully, "I don't know who you are."

Emma sighs, summoning the best explanation she can. "I'm the Savior. I help people in the world above, that's what I do. I can't heal enough people quickly enough, though, so I asked Killian to help me figure out what's causing them all to get sick. That answer enough for you?"

"He doesn't know the answer any more than you do."

"I know. But if there's any place that'll help us figure out what's causing death," Emma gestures around her, "it's this one. And I just want to figure out how to help my people. Judging by the way Killian acts...I think he might want the same."

"He doesn't get a lot of company," Smee says gruffly. "Not besides the mortals he judges, that is."

"I gathered."

Emma is about to ask more questions - about Killian, about the Underworld, about Smee - but she's interrupted by the sudden appearance of Killian in the middle of the room. He clears his throat, eyeing the two of them speculatively. Emma does her best not to notice how he quickly rubs underneath his eyes, the effect of sending a child to his afterlife apparently taking its toll on him.

"Your majesty," Smee says quickly, "I was just-"

Killian groans. "You came to prod me about Emma's presence, I know. As I said, it's none of your concern. She'll just be here for…" his eyes go to her, then, waiting for her to answer.

"A few days, hopefully," Emma finishes. "The sooner I can...get done what I need to, the better."

"Right," Killian replies. "Emma is a guest and she deserves to be treated as such, mate. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, he sets his hand on Emma's shoulder and they're back at his home.

-/-

"Seriously?" Emma asks, blinking back the sudden change in setting.

He laughs, a bit amused by her reaction. Endeared, too, if he's being entirely truthful. "Sorry about that, love. I don't suppose Smee was giving you any trouble, was he?"

"Told him I was the Savior and that we're working together," Emma answers, shrugging as his hand slips off her shoulder. "Kept it vague, mostly."

"He should know better than to pry," Killian frowns.

"It's fine. I'd be weirded out too if someone I worked for randomly appeared with a strange woman. Especially given he said you don't often -" she cuts herself off, biting her lip. Emma must have assumed she was making a solecism by bringing up Killian's relative isolation.

He remains unphased, keeping his tone light. "Get visitors? Aye, I'm a bit solitary."

Emma frowns, considering this. His gut twists at the thought of her pitying him. She pleasantly surprises him by changing the subject, her eyes flitting across his body. "You forgot your coat."

Killian looks down, noticing its absence with a slight chuckle. "Aye, I suppose I did. I was feeling a bit less heavy, so that explains it."

"You going to go back and get it?"

Killian considers it, cocking his head to the side. "Ah, no need," he holds up his hook with a slight, self-deprecating grin, "I've all the intimidation I need here."

She rolls her eyes, predictably. "How do kids usually react to that, by the way? Roland eyed it a little warily."

"I've let them play with the hook before," he shrugs, lifting up the appendage in question. "Children are easy to appease with something shiny, eh?"

Emma grins, shaking her head. She has a nice smile, he has to admit, all light and airy. It's easy to see why mortals trust her so easily, with her healing hands and soft features. "Careful, people might get the impression that you're not nearly as scary as legend says you are."

"And we wouldn't want that, would we?" Killian lets his hook fall by his side, his tone teasing. "To sacrifice the reputation of the fearsome god of the Underworld?"

"Of course not."

The two of them grin, a little stupidly, at each other. Emma seems to remember herself after a moment, much to his disappointment. She averts her eyes from his and clears her throat.

"So," she begins. "We've figured out...nothing. Just that people get sick and either die within a few days or a few weeks or - if they're really lucky - a few months."

"Aye," Killian replies, his own expression sobering. "That seems to be the case. I've seen plagues before in the centuries I've held this position, seen influenzas and consumption and all the rest. I've never seen anything like this."

"Do you think it's the crops?" Emma asks, frowning. "They're all different, but maybe the storms are damaging them in some way to - I don't know. Animals have gotten sick, too, so there's a possibility it has something to do with the food supply."

"Anything is possible. Your suspicions about Rumplestiltskin, however, seem warranted."

"Why? Did you see something? Is there-"

Killian shakes his head, not wishing to get her hopes up. There's no piece of evidence pointing towards the god of the skies and thunder aside from the storms and his silence, but Killian has enough experience with the man to judge what he's capable of. "I wouldn't put it past him. Rumplestiltskin has always had his own motives - always looking out for himself."

"I just don't understand what he even gets out of it," Emma says, frowning. "Mortals die - what does he get out of that?"

"Another show of power, perhaps," Killian shrugs. "More offerings are being made to him, pleading with him to solve their problems, I would venture."

Emma nods, but her expression remains disturbed. "So, what, he's waging misery so he can have a few more people in his temples?"

"I'd wager his plans are a tad more complex, though I admittedly have no idea what they are," he sighs. "You should rest. I'll take care of my judgements earlier tomorrow and perhaps we can discuss it more at a length. There are many people in the Underworld who know a quite bit more than me."

"People like who?"

"The Fates, for example," Killian explains. "They're an invasive, cryptic lot - I don't bother with them much - but one is occasionally able to make some degree of sense out of what they say."

"The Fates," Emma repeats dubiously, "so, the weavers of destiny itself?"

"If anyone knows anything, it's them."

His own exchanges with the Fates have been limited - they were intentionally vague and limited with what they told - but Killian is a man of his word. If he told Emma he intended on helping her, he'd do just that. He's grown tired of seeing the influx of dead mortals himself, from little Roland to the rest of them.

"Alright," Emma nods. "I'm willing to try anything."

"Good," he says, leaning back against one of the walls of his home. "You should get some rest. I can make you up a room."

Emma motions to a chaise in the room they're standing in. "I can just sleep there, it's fine-"

"No," Killian shakes his head insistently. "It's not. You're a guest. We're working together, aye? Just give me a moment to get the room ready."

Emma sighs in exasperation, but doesn't fight him on it. She must realize it'd be a losing battle. He may have spent centuries relatively alone, but there's some chivalry ingrained in him yet. "Thank you," she says instead.

His lips quirk upward. "Nothing to worry about, love. I'll be back in a few moments."

He gestures for her to sit on the chaise she offered to sleep on. She does, looking up at him expectantly. "Now you're a gentleman, huh?"

Killian smirks. "I'm always a gentleman."

-/-

It doesn't take long at all to prepare an old bedroom in his home - collecting as much dust as it may be - just requires Killian to wave his hand it clean off the remnants of time. He changes the sheets quickly, though, unsure he can guarantee their cleanliness otherwise.

It wasn't what he would have picture spending his night doing, just a day ago. Clearing space off in his home for the Savior to sleep, allying himself with her for the sake of the fates of mortals. Speaking of Fates, the idea of him approaching them for her sake when he's spent so long avoiding them and the confusion they caused for over a century…

He doesn't understand himself, truthfully. Doesn't understand why he gets himself into these messes, doesn't understand why a goddess from earth is intent on him - of all people - helping her. The Underworld is a place many can seek answers, of course, but it's hardly a place deities above concern themselves with. He surely didn't, prior to being consigned to it. Emma surely _must_ care for her people if she's willing to risk venturing here, with all the stories they must tell of it and him above.

Killian straightens a pillow, then curses himself for doing so. It's ridiculous, he's ridiculous, for being this concerned with Emma's impressions of a bloody bed to sleep in.

Emma knocks on the door and it makes him nearly jump, the sound catching him by surprise.

He's spent so long in this home without a sound that wasn't made by him.

"Everything okay?" she calls through the door. "It doesn't have to be a palace, you know, it could be a stack of hay and I'd be-"

Killian opens the door, cutting her off mid sentence while her hand lingers in the air from where she was knocking.

"Happy," she finishes, her eyes fixed to his.

"It's a bit more than that," Killian opens the door wider and gestures for her to follow. She does, a smile creeping on her face as her eyes examine the room. "But not by much, I fear."

Emma sits down on the bed, making the quilts indent and ruining the minutes he spent straightening them. He's a bit too concerned with cleanliness, he'll admit, and there's something about having guests over the breeds a bit of anxiety. Killian can't be mad at her for it, can hardly begrudge her for anything so long as she grins up at him like this.

"It's nice," she tells him. "It's homey. I like it."

It makes his heart beat a bit faster in his chest, the sincerity in her voice and the way her eyes burn into his. Killian just stares at her for a moment, his throat dry as his hand tightens at his side. Emma is kind, he's observed, has the sort of kindness about her that radiates. More than just with how much she cares about mortals, more than what he's seen in the memories of those who have been aided by her or seen others aided. It's in the cadence of her words, in the lightness of her eyes.

It's something ingrained in her to the bone, a rare sort of genuine care that he doesn't have to see in her memories to understand.

Emma has a sort of shrewdness about her, as well. She's brave. Very few would challenge the god of the Underworld within seconds of meeting him, fewer would question the most powerful god and actively conspire how to work against him. As irritated as he was with her determination to do what was right - it's been less than a day and he found the flask debacle a tad insufferable, though she certainly had a point - there's something to be admired in it.

She's certainly beautiful, as well, and that hardly hurts matters.

It wouldn't bother him too much, he doesn't think, for her to be here for longer than a few days. As long as she wanted, even, if she determined that there was more work to be done or something else (someone else, a wistful part of him thinks) worth staying for.

"You alright?" she asks carefully, her voice gentle as she cants her head to the side.

Killian coughs, looking away from her eyes and trying to seem as if he was anything but envisioning flights of fancy. He's always been a bit too emotional, easily swayed by matters of the heart. He's just a demigod - more easily tempered by the moods of mortals and their frailties. Killian feels, he hurts, he aches - no matter how much he wishes he could do none of the above.

"Everything is fine, love. Just rest," he encourages lightly, his hand resting on top of her shoulder. "You'll need it, if we're to continue with the prodding. Perhaps we can find something out from the Fates and if not…" he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't bloody know. But we'll figure out something, aye?"

"Okay," Emma agrees, taking off the cloak pinned to her dress. He looks away - a gesture of respect - and tries valiantly not to think about the figure she cuts in the dress she's wearing. "Thank you. For agreeing to help me, for…"

"It's no trouble," he assures her. "No trouble at all. I hope your stay here is, well-"

"Brief?" she offers.

His answering grin is a bit tight. "I hope you find the answers you're looking for. Goodnight, Swan."

"Goodnight, Killian."

Killian heads back to his room, collapsing on his bed and kicking off his boots. He tells himself he isn't going to think about Emma sleeping in the other room, the all too rare company. There's something about her, something that's familiar and novel all at once, and he finds her increasingly difficult to erase from his mind.

His loneliness is playing tricks on him, he supposes, projecting potential where there isn't any.

But it's hard to see anything but potential, but _promise_ in her.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey! Here's an update on this - this fic is honestlyyy getting away from me. It just keeps on getting longer, HOPEFULLY it ends up less than 50k total. My original projection was around 30k, but seeing as we're at over 20k now...that's not happening. I'm just laying back and letting it be whatever it wants to be. The next S &C chapter is halfway done and I will force myself to finish it before Wednesday if it KILLS ME, so if you're sitting there like, "Sister, why are you updating this when you just missed a week on S&C", trust me, it'll be taken care of. I'm 5k into the next chapter, I know what's going down, and I'm going to work on it as soon as this is posted. Also, if you want more to read after this chapter and you haven't read Strangeness and Charm...consider this a promo. It's over 150k and I update every Wednesday (usually)!**

 **Massive thank-yous go to Ella and Amber for looking over this for me. As well as to Liz, who has been cheerleading this fic like nobody's business and making me feel inspired as hell (ba dum ts).**

 **The response to this fic has been super great. It's so wildly outside of my comfort zone and a deviation from my normal style that it's kind of nerve-wracking to write. I like to do things differently, though, it really keeps me on my toes and my inspiration going, so it's honestly been a delight so far.** **Maybe one day I'll write a multichapter that isn't "CS teams up to defeat Regina and/or Rumple". MAYBE ONE DAY I'LL TRULY ESCAPE THE COMFORT ZONE.**

 **Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter!**

-/-

The next day, she conjures herself a chair in the throne room. It's small, unassuming as if not to threaten the throne beside it, but there all the same. Killian has half a mind to tell her she doesn't need to make the chair simple at at all, that she's more than welcome to get a throne of her own. But that, he supposes, would imply a sense of permanence. She's not staying - of course she isn't - Emma belongs to the world above. What reasons would she have to stay, anyway?

It's ridiculous, how much she's gotten under his skin in such a limited amount of time.

"I think I need to sit down for these," Emma explains, sitting down when he stares at her for a tad too long. "If we're doing judgements, then visiting the Fates."

Killian quite likes the sound of 'we' on her tongue, he must admit.

(Killian is being a fool, _he must admit_.)

He clears his throat, averting his eyes. "Be my guest, love."

"I think we need to come up with a reason why I'm here," Emma mutters, tugging at her cloak. "Underworld or not, going around telling everyone we're plotting doesn't exactly make for the best story if word gets around."

"And where would it get around to?" Killian raises his eyebrows. "It's hardly as if Rumplestiltskin has eyes and ears in Asphodel, is it?"

"No," Emma emphasizes, sighing. "But, still. It's bound to get suspicious if I stay here for long - people are going to wonder what kind of business I have being in the Underworld. Rumplestiltskin will wonder."

"Perhaps," Killian suggests, turning his head so his eyes meet hers. They look greener against the grey of the room, he notices, then very much focuses on not noticing. Loneliness, he emphasizes internally, it's the long years of loneliness making him think this way, making him - "Perhaps we could claim romance. A fitting excuse for foolishness. I whisked you away because I was enamored, you're staying over at mine so we can express our passions."

It's making him say things like that.

"Or maybe I just kidnapped you," he suggests, turning his head away.

Emma laughs, shaking her head. "You're a true romantic, aren't you?"

"The truest," he hums glibly, crossing his legs on the throne. He pats his thigh. "Sure you wouldn't rather just sit in my lap, drive the lie further?"

"I'm fine, here. Thank you for the _welcoming_ offer."

She says the last words sarcastically and Killian can't hold back his own laugh. He's about to tease her more, about to suggest an entire complex tale for them to tell, but he's interrupted by an unwelcome sound. Smee's knocking comes, right on schedule. Killian had told him to come earlier, today, as soon as the dawn broke. If there's anything Smee is good at - most of the time, at least - it's following instruction.

If there's anything Smee is additionally good at, it's having the worst bloody timing in the world. He pokes his head in through the door, looking to Killian expectantly.

Killian sighs. "Go on, Smee. Send them in."

"Will do," Smee replies, shutting the door behind him once more.

"You two seem close," Emma comments wryly. The slight amusement in her eyes shows just how much she can tell they're anything but.

"Smee is...an old friend of sorts," Killian explains. "Not really a friend so much as an errand runner, but one of the few I can...somewhat trust, at least."

"I get that," Emma nods. She seems to hesitate before saying her next words. "He said, um, he told me he used to work for you, before. That you were his captain."

Smee has always had a big mouth. Typically, though, there aren't many people for him to reveal much to. "Aye," Killian grunts. "I was."

There's a beat of silence between the two of them - Killian hesitant to get much more into his past and Emma evidently waiting for a cue. She gives up on finding one after a few stilted moments.

"You miss it, don't you?" Emma asks abruptly. "The ocean, your ship, all of that. That's why you didn't want this job and wanted the sea instead - you wanted to stay where you were."

"You're quite perceptive, aren't you?" Killian retorts, keeping his gaze studiously fixed on her. Her expression is soft, eyes probing, but he doesn't need to reveal any more than he already has. "It should come as no surprise that I miss that life. I'm stuck with the dead, after all."

"Well, it was your home," Emma replies easily. "Of course you miss it."

The door opens with the latest mortal to judge before he can reply.

-/-

They finish judgements in record time, thanks to Killian's haste. The sooner they get to the Fates, the sooner they have a chance at deciphering what the bloody hell they mean. The sooner she can leave and the sooner the mortals quit haunting his doorstep, the better. She's been here for a day and he's already growing too attached. If the Savior stays much longer, it might pose a risk to his sanity.

She's not unpleasant, not at all. That's what makes this so bloody difficult when he'll never see her again.

Once the last mortal leaves, Emma turns to him expectantly. He tries his best not to think of how attached he is to the new fixture in the room, how much he likes another chair taking residence there.

"Let me guess," Emma says. "You get us to whatever ominous cave the Moirai are hanging out in and we politely ask that they tell us what Rumplestiltskin is up to?"

"I'm afraid they're rarely that forthcoming."

"Figures. Maybe we'll be able to get...a hint, at least. A hint would be nice."

"Indeed it would," Killian agrees. Any possible means to stop Rumplestiltskin would be a miracle in on itself - if the Fates can assist them in the slightest with that, it'd be a cause for glee. If he's truly up to something nefarious - near to ending mortal life as they know it - the Fates wouldn't let that stand. At the very least, they'd do what they've always done - nudge people along to their proper paths when they're having difficulty.

He visited them, once, after he lost...what he'd lost. After Rumplestiltskin had taken from him what he did, Killian was determined to seek revenge. Even demons, he'd reasoned, could be killed. The Fates weren't bloody helpful in the slightest then, insisting on a natural order and time in the circular way they spoke. That just left Killian bitter and powerless, anger diffusing over time and just leaving a sense of bitter helplessness.

Killian was bound to the Underworld forever thanks to the contract he'd signed, thanks to what he'd been assigned and the fruits of the Underworld that passed his lips to cement the agreement. He'd dug his own grave, so to speak, now he's living in it. He supposes that was the point of what the Fates were saying. But while they may not have been helpful about the fate of one man and his fruitless quest for revenge, they had to give a damn about the mortals who they'd spent so long designing lives for.

"They have to at least throw us a bone," Emma frowns. "I know the Fates generally...stay out of it as a rule, but when the alternative to helping is the end of mortality as we know it, it sort of raises the stakes."

"You read my thoughts," Killian admits, sitting up straighter. "Are you ready to go, then?"

"You're the one who has to," she snaps her fingers to illustrate what she means, "us there."

"Just take my hand," he tells her, chuckling at her description.

Emma follows his instructions, setting her hand carefully on top of his on the arm of his throne. She threads her fingers through his, for good measure, still maintaining eye contact with him.

It's pathetic that this contact, as innocent as it may be, makes his breathing slightly ragged.

-/-

The next thing Emma knows, they're in a cave that smells musty and feels freezing. It shouldn't be surprising, given this was about what she'd predicted, but it has her feeling a chill up her spine nonetheless. She can only see a few feet ahead of her, the cave only lit by the occasional blue flame. It's more ominous than welcoming. Killian doesn't let go of her hand, just tightens his grip as he edges carefully closer to where she guesses the Fates are. She's grateful for the contact, truthfully, the reminder of something solid and real in a place that she can hardly see in.

It's worth it - every creepy cave in the world is worth saving her people. It's what Emma has to do, what she was _born_ to do. It's a mantra she's been repeating for the past day and one that she's still hanging on to.

"How far?" Emma asks, keeping her voice in a low whisper.

"Closer than you think," he replies, squeezing her hand once more.

Sure enough, he's right. It only takes a few more minutes of walking to get closer and closer to their destination, the muted flames lighting more and more of the cave to reveal where three old women are stationed at a spinning wheel, weaving translucent threads that she's sure are meant to represent the destinies they're meant to decide. The Fates have always been mysterious figures - answering to nothing and no one, more embodiments of a concept than anything else. Emma isn't even sure where to start.

By the frown on Killian's face, she doesn't think he is either.

"We need your help," Emma says, finally, directing her words towards the women. "Rumplestiltskin - the god of the skies - we think he's been killing a lot of mortals. Soon, there won't be any left. No matter what we do, if we can't cut whatever is making them sick off at the source, we don't know how much longer humanity will even be able to survive."

It's as if they didn't even hear her. the Fates titter amongst themselves, unconcerned with the two deities in front of them. She can't make out a word they're saying. They seem to ignore Killian and Emma entirely. Killian looks as if he expected this much. He keeps quiet, listening to the incomprehensible babble.

Emma sighs, letting go of Killian's hand and crossing her arms impatiently. "We're here to ask for help," she reiterates. They keep talking in tones she doesn't understand, a language she doesn't know.

Killian taps her shoulder gently. "I know this tongue, love. Even if you understand the language, understanding what they mean is an even more arduous task."

"How?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

"You learn quite a lot absorbing the memories of mortals over centuries," Killian points out. "I can understand their tongue, but they speak in riddles. The Fates always have, they weave multiple paths and all outcomes. It's what they do, what they've always done."

"It's quite rude to talk about someone as if they're not in front of you," one of the Fates speaks up, her words loud and clear. Emma's jaw nearly drops.

"The answer you seek lies in front of you," the other follows.

"Between you," says the third.

"Discoverable by letting yourselves be open, be clear, be -"

"Solicitude is crucial, something you share."

"You need to share, the Underworld needs rulers like the world above needs..."

"Water. It flows, beating down on the earth, the soil, and-"

"Taking what is lost, what never may be found again."

"Though it leaves marks, permanent marks."

Emma blinks, trying to absorb all of the information and failing. Her head is beginning to ache with the effort. Killian was right - even if she can still understand what they're saying, it still doesn't make any sense. Killian sighs, running his hand over the trimmed beard on his chin.

"It's as I said," Killian mutters, "it's hardly decipherable."

"But it will be," a Fate promises.

"One day."

"Today."

"When it's time - could be never."

Emma is very quickly getting tired of the vagueness of the weird triplets. She lets her hand fall on Killian's arm, trailing down to grasp his hand in hers. He looks at her, surprised by the motion, and she interlocks their fingers. "Thank you for your help," she tells the Fates, though they've hardly been helpful at all. Pushing them further won't do her any good, though, that much she understands. Angering the weavers of fate itself isn't a good idea. "But we should be going."

Emma squeezes Killian's hand to emphasize her point. He seems to understand. In a blink, they're back to his home instead of in the cave. Emma lets out a ragged breath, her hands coming up to press her palms into her forehead.

"When you said that they were hard to understand…"

"I meant it," Killian finishes, his expression grim. "They're not open with information regarding the future. Well, I suppose in a way they are, but it's so jumbled and vague they may be saying nothing at all."

"I had better luck understanding when I couldn't even make out their language," Emma mutters. "I could feel every hair on my body standing up, there's something so...unnerving about that place."

"It's not welcoming for a reason, it's ill-advised to intervene with destiny. The only reason I was able to venture in was because I'm the ruler of the domain they've settled in."

"And what good does that even do?" Emma mutters, collapsing on a nearby chaise. "Nothing they said will really help. Today, one day, in front of me…"

"Well," Killian says, digging into his coat pocket for something. He finds it a moment later, pulling out the flask with a slight grin. "They did say to share. Care for a drink, love?"

Emma eyes the flask with suspicion. "Seriously? Is rum your solution to everything?"

"It certainly never hurts."

That statement is blatantly false, but she chooses to ignore it. "I don't think I'm helping anyone by drinking, Killian."

"So what would you be doing instead?" he cocks his head to the side, wiggling the flask in front of her as if taunting her with it. "You seem stressed, darling."

"My people are dying," Emma mutters. "Of course I'm stressed. I should be up there," she gestures at the ceiling, "healing people, doing something."

"You said yourself this won't stop until we cut it off at the source."

Emma groans, acknowledging he has a point. She holds her hand out expectantly. "If I drink will you leave me alone?"

"Not a chance," he replies. "Just give yourself a few minutes, eh? They did say the answer was right in front of us. Perhaps we just need to think about it."

Emma notices something when he hands over the flask. Her eyes narrow in on his wrist. "Who is Milah? On the tattoo?"

-/-

It's a name he hasn't heard in centuries. Killian retracts his hand immediately, as if the name alone stung him. In a way, it has. It's a reminder - a reminder of the other crimes Rumplestiltskin has committed, a reminder of all he's lost, a reminder of why he's alone.

"Someone from long ago."

"Where is she?"

Killian's eyes go to the wood underneath his feet. He finds himself wishing he could crawl out of his skin, get out of this room, get out of this world if it means he doesn't have to have this conversation. He doesn't answer the question.

"You loved her," Emma states. And it is a statement, not a question, because she knows. Just like Emma seems to bloody know everything else, she knows this. Killian has spent centuries sheltering himself from the influence of others, from the prying eyes of everyone from gods to mortals. Emma sees through all of it like it's nothing, as if his walls are nothing but glass.

"Aye," Killian admits, his throat thick with feeling, with memories, with regret. He slumps next to her on the chaise. The flask in her hands is unopened, forgotten. "I loved her. And she me."

"What happened?" she asks, sliding closer to him. He catches empathy, there, perhaps some understanding along with it.

His mouth sets into a hard line. "She's gone."

"Gone where?" Emma counters, frowning. "You're the god of the Underworld - if she's dead then you should have been able to -"

"I should have been able to do a lot of things," he mutters, eyes burning as he stares at the ink imprinted on his skin. The lines of her name start to blend together - the 'M' and the 'I' becoming virtually interchangeable from each other. Killian blinks back the sting in his eyes, but remains unable to do so with the sunken feeling in his chest.

Emma pauses, knotting her fingers together and biting her lip before resuming her line of questioning.

"Why can't you get her back?"

"There are some places that you can't get people back from," he explains, his voice grave and low. "The River of Lost Souls hosts mortals who can't be salvaged by anyone - not even the god of the Underworld."

Emma seems to ruminate over this.

"You really don't have much more control over this than we do, do you?" Emma murmurs.

Killian sits beside her, stonefaced. He doesn't say a word. Whatever lighthearted mood was in this room before, it's long gone now.

"People act like divine intervention can get them out of anything and everything..." Emma sighs, shaking her head. "But it can't. Just like I can't...I can't heal everyone, can't stop everyone from dying. You can help people afterwards, sure, pass judgement and direct them to the right place. But you can't stop someone from dying. Well, you can heal them but - once they're dead, they're dead. You can't...undo it."

"If I could," Killian rasps, his voice thick. "I would."

"How did she end up in the River of Lost Souls?" Emma probes, her brow furrowed. "She didn't wade in there herself."

It's not an accusation, but it's curious. Emma is curious, seeking answers he doesn't know how to give.

Well, he knows how to give them, but he spent centuries without being able to say a word of it to anyone. Not Smee, who wouldn't understand. Not the other mortals, who only passed through and who he swore not to disturb after what happened to Milah. Not the Fates, who heard his pleas but didn't manage to answer them with anything besides nebulous gibberish.

"She was married to Rumplestiltskin, before he knew he was a god," Killian explains with a sigh. "He abandoned her for bigger and better things - gained more and more power to slake his thirst for it. Eventually, he managed to get his hands on the weapons - lightning bolts, of course - that could kill gods and enable him to take over the mantle of the most powerful Olympians. Milah was forgotten, in all that, a reminder of who he was before he knew what power he truly had."

Emma listens patiently, her eyes not leaving his. "How did you end up together?"

"She died," Killian murmurs. "Rumplestiltskin killed her. I'd just taken over my post here, shook her hand and saw what happened to her. He crushed her heart. She was a reminder of who he was before, the man he never wanted to be again. He was weak and powerless before he learned of his divinity. I was still bitter and angry over Rumplestiltskin assigning me here - threatening me into taking the post, more like - and I was interested, to say the least. I told her she could stay with me for a little while before I sent her to Elysian, that we could see to it that Rumplestiltskin got what he deserved. We grew closer the longer we spent together and once Rumplestiltskin found out I was cavorting with the wife he killed…"

"He threw her in the river," Emma finishes, her voice grim.

"Aye," Killian frowns. "He did. And that's why, now, there's no god who can enter here without my permission. You're the exception, of course."

"Take me to the river," Emma says suddenly, her hand letting go of the flask and moving to his elbow.

He raises his eyebrows. "Have you had enough of me? Planning to throw me in? Gods can get out, you know."

"No," Emma shakes her head. "I just feel like there's something…"

"What?" Killian asks, puzzled.

"Something we're missing," she finishes. "I feel like there's something we're missing."

"How will the river help?"

"I don't know," Emma says, her voice faint. It grows stronger, though, when she speaks once more. "I just have a feeling…"

Killian swallows. He's not anxious to revisit the place he lost his first love, the place he swore never to come near again. But if what Emma is saying has any merit, if it could help their pursuits at all, it's worth a try.

He trusts her, he realizes. It could prove foolish, but he does.

"Very well, then."

-/-

"Where are we?" Emma asks, her eyes flitting around her ominous surroundings. There's a river, sure enough, just feet from where they're standing now. The river is eerie, a sickly green color that moves at a languid pace. Emma can't see anyone in it from where she is, but she doesn't want to stare at it for long enough that she does.

Her gut feeling, whatever it is, is unsettling.

"Tartarus," Killian answers, his posture stiff. It's clear the place isn't full of good memories. Given it's reserved for the worst of people, it's understandable. "We're in Tartarus."

"Oh."

He motions to the river. "I wouldn't advise venturing into the river. You may be able to escape, but it's not...pleasant. The water traps the mortals, but the mortals could try to trap you in turn."

Suddenly, it clicks.

"The water," Emma says in realization, eyeing the river with horror. "The water, the rain, it's -"

Killian steadies her quickly, setting his hand on her back. "What's the matter, love?"

Emma stares at the water of the River of Lost Souls, unable to stop looking at it. Water can be poisonous, water can take life rather than give it. The sickness started spreading when the storms began and, while she and her parents were more concerned about preventing flooding at the time, the rainwater never stopped. It got in the wells, the waterways, and the crops that managed to last until harvest. Mortals need water to survive. Gods don't. If they drank it, it wouldn't harm them, but it could cause irreparable damage to mortals. Rumplestiltskin, god of the rain and skies and thunder, had control over that.

"He poisoned the rainwater and all the mortals with it," Emma murmurs in realization, stepping away from the river quickly.

Killian furrows his eyebrows, his eyes flitting from the water to her. "The rainwater? What does that mean, love?"

"Rumplestiltskin is the god of the rain and lightning and all of that, right?" Emma explains quickly, connecting the dots. "That's how people are getting sick - the rain. It's poisoning them. The sickness started when the storms did."

Killian curses under his breath. "I can't believe I didn't…"

"We need to get them water - clean water - and quick. Is there any way I can get any water from here?" Emma asks, trying to think of a solution. People can't keep drinking the water - the water she'd been _giving_ them after she healed them, just poisoning them all over again. She's beginning to feel sick herself. "Send it up, from Asphodel or Elysian? There has to be some water there, something untouched by Rumplestiltskin."

"Aye," he agrees immediately. "Aye, there is. There are many seas and bodies of water in Asphodel, mirrors to their counterparts in your world. In the Elysian Fields, there's a lake with healing properties. Now that I think of it, it could help the already poisoned as well as prevent any more poisonings."

"I just need to make sure no one drinks any of the rainwater. No one can eat any crops contaminated by the water, no one can -"

"I can't send any food," Killian murmurs, voice tinged in regret. "Eating the fruits of the Underworld binds you here permanently. It'd defeat the purpose to save their lives only to send them back here."

"Right," Emma replies, frowning. "The crops have been drowned in the water, anyway, but my father is - he's been handling it."

The perks of being the god of the harvest, Emma supposes, is that you get to bend the rules a bit. Her people shouldn't starve or eat poisoned crops, but she's going to need that water. Her mother, too, should be able to help with that. "We need to go right now," she looks up at Killian expectantly. "We can't afford to waste any time."

"Aye," he agrees, nodding. His face is solemn, fit for the situation. He holds out his hand for her to take, eyes fixed on hers. "Whenever you're ready, love."

Emma takes it without hesitation, as she's been doing all day now. In a blink, they're under bright skies and surrounded by rich color - a harsh contrast to the muted darkness of Tartarus. She's adjusted to the traveling back and forth, sure, but this is another adjustment entirely. Emma shuts her eyes, and when she opens them again it's easy to see why this place is paradise.

"This is the Elysian Fields, huh?" Emma murmurs in awe, taking in her surroundings. Everything is vivid and shining - the water of the lake is clear, a picaresque waterfall circulating more of it through. Pink flowers grow lush around them, where they stand in the middle of a meadow. The sky is a pale blue, its clouds puffy and huge.

"That it is," Killian answers, a small smile forming on his face. He stares at her, for a minute, before quickly clearing his throat and looking away to the water. "How would you like to do this, then? Send barrels of it to your parents' castle?"

"Yeah," Emma agrees, pursing her lips together. "Just as long as this storm lasts, which, considering it's been a year…" Emma sighs, her hands coming up to her temples. "This first, Rumplestiltskin later."

"And what exactly do you plan to do with Rumplestiltskin now that it's revealed he's been poisoning the mortals?" Killian asks, his eyebrows raising. "I don't know if you've noticed, love, but the gods are hardly easily slain."

Emma grimaces. "The Olympians died somehow, didn't they?"

Rumplestiltskin may have the lightning bolts, but there has to be an alternative. He frowns, at that, but Emma's eyes go back to the water of the lake, sparkling in the sunlight.

"Like I said," she gestures to the lake. "Water first, then what to do about Rumplestiltskin. Do I need to worry about conserving? Will the lake run out of water if we take too much?"

"It's the Underworld," he supplies. "Nothing _'runs out'_ , as you put it. Everything here is meant to last an eternity."

"Good," Emma replies. She lets out an exhale of relief - this is at least one less thing to worry about. "That's good. We should get started, then. Is there any way to send things back to the world above aside from just appearing in your temple?"

He hesitates. His expression seems conflicted, torn for reasons she doesn't quite understand. Killian swallows and answers all the same. "I can send it wherever you wish, love. I may not be able to traverse much myself, but I can at least do this."

"So, my parent's castle?" Emma proposes. "We can send barrels there? They should be able to send it out from there but-"

"Yes," Killian nods. "I can send it up to your parents. How many barrels do you think we should send, initially?"

Emma frowns, considering it. "A dozen at first, maybe? Then we can start increasing it, just so they're not so overwhelmed."

"And your parents, do they trust Rumplestiltskin?"

"Not any more than I do. Which is to say, not at all."

"Good," Killian says, eyes going back to the lake. "That's good, then. They'll believe he's poisoning the water?"

"They already thought it was something - just like I did - and the water poisoning makes sense, at least."

"Aye, that it does."

They just stand there staring at each other for a moment - making Emma feel kind of ridiculous, given the task in front of them, given the temporary _solution_ in front of them. But Killian is staring at the lake and she's staring at Killian and it's -

It's awkward. Awkward because he's so willing, so ready to help her - no questions asked. It's an adjustment from the man she met yesterday, the reluctant god in his temple. Banter, she can handle just fine. Genuine help? Offering her all the waters in the Underworld, arranging for her to meet the Fates, letting her sit in on judgements where he guided a kid to paradise, fussing over her room?

It has to be a trick. He has to be a trick. No one is like this, as ready to help without any sort of obvious ulterior motive aside from getting her out of his hair. She'd think it was a set-up by Rumplestiltskin or that Killian was just pretending to care. She'd think he wanted these people to be here, that he assumed that the Underworld would thrive more with more occupants - but she can't think any of this.

He's sincere, that much she can tell. Lonely, definitely and a little too quick to resort to a flask, sure - but he's sincere. Emma has more powers than just healing, she's pretty good at spotting liars. Killian hasn't told her anything that wasn't the truth, from what she can tell.

Which just leaves him as the man who is genuinely helping her, helping her family, helping her people. All without anything really in it for him.

(He'd claim he was doing it for selfish reasons - reducing the amount of people he has to judge, spiting an old enemy - but he cares too much for that.)

It'd almost be easier if she could tell he had a sinister motive - that would at least be something she knew what to do with.

Emma _doesn't_ know what to do with this.

"I'll get the barrels, then," Killian says abruptly.

She blinks and he's gone. He could have just conjured them - even she's capable of that. But maybe he was feeling the same doubt, the same hesitation she was. Emma is no stranger to the feeling of needing to flee. Maybe he isn't, either. Another thing they have in common.

They have way too much in common.

Emma grunts, slumping on a patch of grass that suddenly seems too green, its blades too crisp. It's not even uncomfortable to sit on - the wonders of paradise never cease - which makes her own inner discomfort all the more jarring.

-/-

He needs a minute.

A minute to think, to plan, to collect himself. It was the best outcome he could hope for, surely, to be able to help the Savior out in less than two days and send her on her way. Back to her parents' castle, her people's salvation with her. She's leaving, going to return to where she belongs, and it's surely for the best. He can continue with his life here. Perhaps he'll prod the Fates some more for answers, it's possible that they may be more forthcoming on how to defeat Rumplestiltskin when they know the threat he poses to their very existences. If he kills everyone, there's hardly anyone left to weave the fate of. A replacement of water sources or not, everyone is still in danger.

And Emma is - rightfully - leaving to deal with that danger. Killian is…

Barrels - he's collecting barrels. Barrels he could have easily just conjured to Elysian instead of coming to where his rum is kept in Asphodel. Killian sighs, glaring at a few empty rum barrels that will be too cumbersome to carry. He can only manage one at a time, thanks to one hand and a frame hardly equipped to juggle more than that.

Emma will think him a completely bloody lunatic - disappearing without much warning when he doesn't need to, appearing with just one container. He can conjure the rest easily, that's no issue at all. But he'll look decidedly foolish doing that after making the excuse to come here to grab the damn barrels in the first place.

One day, and he's already a blustering fool.

Killian groans, grabbing an empty barrel by the hand. Within seconds, he's back in the Elysian Fields. Emma is sitting on the grass before she turns around to face him, her expression contemplative as she stands. Her eyes go to the barrel.

"You know, you could have just conjured them. Would be easier than going back and forth."

He flushes, setting the barrel down on the grass. "Aye. That would make sense, wouldn't it?"

Emma laughs. "It would."

He can't hold back his own grin, shaking his head at his own foolishness. Killian concentrates and - sure enough - there are a dozen barrels on the grass waiting to be filled.

"There we go," Emma's smile widens, her dimples showing. He's never seen her smile like this and, truth be told, he's greedy to see more of it. More of that lightheartedness, the laughter.

But she's leaving. That's that. It's silly to get attached to something, someone in less than two days. It's imprudent to wax poetic about their smile or the way the sunlight reflects on their hair.

She grabs one of the barrels without hesitation, bending over to submerge it in the lake to fill it. Killian's body catches up with his brain and he follows her lead, doing the same. If this water will keep more mortals from dying, if it'll foil Rumplestiltskin, then all the better. He can think about the positive effects of this, at least, even if he's torn about what's leaving with it.

They finish the task without too much of a fuss, closing them once they're filled and stacking all of them together. Killian stares at their handiwork after it's done, thinking of what he has to do next. He can send the barrels to the castle easily, sure, but with Emma he'll need to send her back with Charon. The passage of gods through the Underworld is intentionally tricky, Charon is one of her only options aside from him escorting her directly back to his temple.

Killian doesn't want to do the latter. He doesn't need to make things harder on himself by visiting a place he can't stay.

"Wait," Emma interrupts before he can do anything, hands shielding over the barrels. "I should leave a note with them so my parents know what's going on."

It baffles him, why she'd want to send a message when she'd be following them above, but he nods nonetheless. Perhaps, since she would not be following the water above _immediately_ , she wanted to ensure that they'd know what was happening in the meantime.

Emma quickly summons parchment, a quill, and ink and writes her message using a barrel as a hard surface. When she's done, she looks to Killian to give him permission. "Alright, done. Now the mysterious water has an explanation and my parents know not to let the people drink the rainwater. I told them more are coming, so," she shrugs, "they should be able to figure something out."

"Aye," he nods. Given that she'll be there to explain it in person, he knows they will. "That they should."

He sends the barrels where they need to be. The thought of boats lingers, however, and he spots a small row boat on the skirts of the lake. The barrels were sent immediately, but Emma...she could wait, just a little longer. Perhaps he could convince her to enjoy the beauties of Elysian just a little while longer.

"Come along, Swan," Killian calls, stepping towards the boat and motioning for her to follow. "I don't suppose you'd like to go for a short ride, would you?"

"That depends," Emma's voice comes from behind him. "Are you charging me? I don't have any gold pieces to get passage and you know what they say about making deals with the god of the Underworld."

"Which you've already done."

"True."

Killian settles down into the boat first, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable. Emma follows, though the way she clamors into it is noticeably hesitant. She's not used to boats, not used to the water - a tragedy, given she has the privilege of experiencing the real nature of the sea above - and that much is evident in the way she carefully balances herself.

He shakes his head in amusement. "Never been on a boat before, love?"

Emma finally makes herself comfortable, folding her own legs and wrapping her arms around her knees. The skirt she's wearing still covers her to her ankles, white and slightly less pristine. "The way this is going, I might fall and topple the damn thing over. Then we'll see how magical the damn water really is."

"Nonsense, Swan," he insists, grabbing an oar. It would propel them well enough, though not as quickly as two oars could, but those were hardly an option. "We'll make a sailor out of you yet."

"This isn't sailing," she points out.

"Don't I know it?"

Emma just shakes her head, her eyes searching around the scenery. There's a lot to be seen, he knows, the beauty of Elysian roughly unparalleled. It's tranquil and stunning for a reason - it's meant to be paradise for those who are most deserving of beauty and rest.

Still, it's not the sea, nothing can quite compare to the sea of his world - not even the waters of Elysian, they're much too tranquil and constant to encapsulate the oceans above - but it's close. It's peaceful, which isn't an unpleasant atmosphere.

"Must be nice," Emma comments. "To have paradise ready and waiting for you whenever you want it."

' _You can stay here for as long as you'd like,'_ almost leaves his lips, before he replaces it with the much more appropriate, "Ah, I suppose it is."

"But it's not the same as your ship, huh?"

He stiffens, his hand tightening on the oar.

"Sorry," Emma apologizes, sounding genuine. "I didn't mean to...touchy subject, I get it."

"It's fine," he shakes his head. "I just suppose I haven't the opportunity to talk about it for so long…"

"I'm sure mortals would be willing to listen to the god of the Underworld."

"I don't like disturbing them," Killian shrugs. "I try to let them live their lives - or, well, afterlives - as undisturbed as possible."

"That's nice of you."

"Not as nice as healing legions of people," Killian points out. "The Savior, indeed."

"I don't know, you're stiff competition," Emma says lightly. "Without you, they wouldn't have the water to cure them."

"And if not for an insistent goddess in my temple, they still wouldn't."

"You're good at your job," Emma counters. "You should give yourself more credit."

"I am?"

"The people," she clarifies, "You're good with them. You're kind. You're compassionate. You're good at this."

He squirms uncomfortably at the compliment, unsure of how to accept it. It was a job thrust upon him, not one he wanted. Certainly not one he wished for. He made do with what he had - after centuries it got easier to do so. And the people - seeing what they'd been through, seeing through the eyes of so many - made it that much easier to understand. Understand his role, understand the needs of others, the significance of others.

Killian walked in other people's shoes to the extent of walking in their heads. After that, it was difficult to maintain the sharp edge of his selfishness. Perhaps the job was meant for someone with a bloodline more pure than his - someone not as easily swayed by the emotions of mortals (a category he belongs to as much as he does the gods). But, Killian has found his own way with it.

And if Emma thinks -

Well, it's quite a bit of praise, for the woman whose power is to heal and save to tell him that he's doing a fine job of caring. He's seen the trait as an illness for so long, something he's always been unable to shake despite his best efforts. Caring got his hand taken from him, his brother sent to the Underworld because he trusted a king to care as much as he did. His venture into piracy after the passing of his brother and the proof that mortals and gods alike were capable of horrible, atrocious things was meant to be proof of how careless he was, how rebellious he could be.

And to be fair, he's still rebellious. He still has the earring, the pirate's luck, the not listening to a damn proclamation from Rumplestiltskin if he can help it. But he's never been able to rid himself of the caring completely. He cared for Milah, loved Milah - but it had only gotten her lost. He loved his brother and he died. He loved his mother and she didn't last through his childhood. He loved, he loved, he loved in a series of words ending in past tense without any hope of a switch to present. Killian has seen the consequences of caring too much, is the embodiment of it, but at least with this - with mortals already dead, with exchanges never lasting more than a few moments - he can put the trait to some use.

This has been his philosophy, at any rate.

Killian says none of this, can't find the air in his lungs to. God or not - the wind has been knocked out of him. Emma gives him a soft smile that speaks of something like understanding.

"That's kind of you to say, Swan," he manages, at last.

"It's true. I wouldn't say it if it wasn't. You saw the way I went for the rum - if I thought you were doing something wrong, I would have told you to fix it by now."

She says the last words with a teasing grin, but he recognizes the meaning in them all the same.

"And, for the record, if you want to talk, I can do that too," she continues. "It's hard, being alone. Before I met my parents again, it was kind of," Emma inhales deeply, "a mess. It's a long story, Regina hated my mother and they had to hide me and - you get the idea. For a while I didn't know I had any family at all who cared, let alone that I had powers. They made my job easier. It always helps to have people on your side."

Killian listens to her words carefully, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun shining above him. He clears his throat. "Well, then - I hope you know that I'm here for you, as well, if you need to talk."

She gives him a fond smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Or," he wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, "if you'd prefer to use me for other, more enjoyable activities."

Emma groans. "Don't think I won't push you into the water, because I will."

-/-

Once they get back to the shore - thankfully he hadn't been tossed overboard once - the two of them trudge back towards the meadow. He knows he should get her where she needs to be soon, that he should get her to Charon and end it all right there. Killian will, soon.

His eyes linger on the flowers littering the area, the pink petals of Middlemist in a state of permanent blossom. No matter what, they'll never wilt - the benefits of being dead already, he supposes. Killian plucks one of them carefully, trying not to disturb the leaves attached to it.

"For you," Killian presents the flower to her with a grin he hopes isn't as tremulous as it feels. She takes it. "Something to remember the Underworld by before you go today. A piece of evidence it's not quite all fire and brimstone down here."

Emma blinks, her confusion blatant in the pinch of her brow and the downturn of her lips. "What?"

Killian flounders, losing the words he almost had a grip on. "Well, I'd assumed…"

"Assumed what?" Emma counters. "That I was leaving?"

"Well...yes."

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks.

"No," is his immediate response. It leaves his mouth before he can stop it and he stands there, opening and closing his mouth stupidly. He scratches behind his ear. "Well, I mean-"

"So, you _do_ want me to leave?"

"That's not what I said," he protests, sounding petulant. He's like a damn schoolboy, unable to straighten himself out enough to admit he has a bloody crush. Which isn't what he has, he doesn't - it isn't like that.

Well, it is, but -

He's even lying to himself.

"I quite like having you around, I must admit," Killian sighs finally, pinching his nose.

Emma smiles, the sight sending delightful, terrifying tingles down his spine. "Careful," she teases, "Don't go giving me too much reluctant praise, it might all go to my head. If you want me to leave, I can go, I just thought -"

She stops.

"Thought what?"

A slight frown curves her lips downwards. "Thought we could help each other out some more, considering Rumplestiltskin is still out there and we still don't exactly have a plan for what to do about it. He killed someone you cared about, right? And he's killing people I care about. I just thought that we made a good team, working together."

"Working together," he repeats.

"Yes. Working together."

Killian studies her. Their eyes meet, holding each others' gazes.

"Now that we've gotten the water sorted out, I supposed that you'd want to leave rather than stay here," he says, tone deceptively light. Truthfully, the last thing he wants is to see her go, to send her back where he can't follow her. Emma is…

Emma is a manner of things. Enchanting, for one, with her kind eyes and beautiful smiles and impish humor. Caring to a bloody fault - the entire reason she came to the land of the dead was to prevent more of her people from following - and the carefulness she's shown him, a god who can't be killed and hardly deserves it in the slightest, is enough to make him feel the familiar pangs of longing. Which, of course, aren't at all familiar in the decades he's been starved of the feeling.

He's longed for his ship, longed for a way to bring Milah back, longed for an escape from this miserable, solitary existence - but he's never been this close to touching something seemingly so within his grasp.

It's an illusion, is what it is, to believe that she is within his grasp at all. Emma is warmth and light, life-giving and healing - a true goddess of the earth. All Killian has to his name is darkness and death - passing judgements on those who have already faced too much suffering as a result of his own judgement at the hands of a tyrannical almighty.

-/-

Emma just blinks back at him. "Why would I want to do that? I just told you I wanted to stick around," she asks, sounding genuinely baffled. She honestly doesn't know what his problem is, why he's pressing for her to leave when she could swear he wanted her to stay.

"You have a life to get back to," Killian shrugs. "A family, a kingdom, a destiny - all of those lovely things. Staying here hardly seems like part of the plan. The god of the Underworld, hindering your-"

"Is that what you think this is, what you are?" Emma asks slowly, her eyes narrowing. "A hindrance?"

"I understand, Emma."

"No," Emma shakes her head, eyes fierce. "You really don't."

Killian is infuriating, is what he is. For someone so astute - who has the power to open the pasts of mortals like a book - he can be really obtuse sometimes. The worst part is that he genuinely thinks what he's saying is true - that she's that eager to get rid of him. That she'd cast him - this, what they're working together for - aside as soon as she was given the opportunity.

"You needn't shield my feelings," Killian sighs in resignation, his gaze going to his feet. He's not going to listen to her, not like this, he'd rather slink back into misunderstood loneliness than wake up and realize what's standing in front of him. He feels something for her, that much she knows - from the way she catches him looking at her to the way he's acting now. And Emma realizes, by now, that these feelings aren't one-sided.

They still have to defeat Rumplestiltskin. They still have to send water back to her world. He's warm and he's caring and he gets it - it's hard not to feel something for a man who is willing to inconvenience himself so much to help people, to help her. As dark as the stories of his reputation were, he's proven to be anything but. And while her relationships have typically never lasted beyond trysts - she's a goddess, that either scares men away or gets them invested for the wrong reasons and it's just a huge power imbalance she doesn't want to deal with - she can almost see a future with him.

Even if it's here, where the mortals go after they've died.

There's something terrifying about this - thinking this way about someone she's known for just over a day, when she's fallen hard and fast before and isn't anxious to do it again. Baelfire was a mortal and left her without a blink once he discovered what she really was, who she really was. But Killian - there's something achingly familiar in him. There's something she trusts, something she understands.

"I'm not shielding anything," Emma groans petulantly, looking up to the sky in exasperation. "If you would just listen for a few moments…"

She trails off, losing the words she was going to say.

What words are there to say?

Killian closes his eyes, as if preparing himself for a painful onslaught. Emma doesn't let him say anything, doesn't let him interrupt her, just surges forward to grab him by the collar and press his lips to hers. Killian croaks in surprise at the kiss, eyes opening wide and floundering, but Emma just keeps kissing him. Eventually, he gets the point. His hand comes up to thread in her hair and his hooked arm loops around her waist. He deepens the kiss, something desperate and needy in the way he does it, and she just holds onto him tighter.

They break apart for the sake of their breath, as much as they may not technically need it. Killian almost dives in for seconds until Emma speaks.

"I'm staying," Emma tells him, her voice firm. "I'm staying until we sort this out. I helped my people out for now, but I said I wouldn't leave until we cut it off at the source. It's still not cut off. What we have to do now is work together on this, alright? No one knows Rumplestiltskin like you do, no one can help me like you can. And that's…" she sighs, hands tightening on his lapel. "That's not the only reason I'm staying. You understand?"

She doesn't know what the future holds, doesn't know what the plan is after all this is over. But she knows this - she's gotten used to Killian, grown attached to him being around her. She sees the same things she sees in herself in him. The loneliness, the duty, the hurt - she sees it all and she understands it. Emma understands him.

"I understand," he tells her, his forehead propped against hers.

And she thinks he just might.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey! I did not forget about this fic! I'm thinking it's going to be six or seven parts total (notice how this number keeps on going up...whoops, probably more like seven or eight). This fic is so wildly out of my usual comfort zone and that goes for the pacing of it, too? I hope it doesn't feel rushed (because I'm trying to tell this story in under 100k, god help me) but, I mean, keep note of the circumstances. Big thank-yous to Amber and Liz for reading this over.**

 **-/-**

They're still searching for information on how to deal with Rumplestiltskin weeks later. Emma is sitting hunched over in a desk, stacks of books and notes piled around her. Her hands are smudged with ink, residue of her desperation. Killian does his own perusing across from her at the table, shutting books with an increasing amount of frustration when they don't yield the answers he needs. The library they're seated in is colossal, with a massive collection that's seemingly never ending. The merit of having a collection of books written by mortals with all of the time in the world at their hands, Killian supposes.

Initially, the mortals of Asphodel who frequented the library gave the two gods odd looks. It wasn't often that Killian got out - hardly ever, as part of his own rule to keep his life separate from those who met their end in the world above - so the sight of a god they hadn't seen since their judgments (some mortals were sentenced before he was even the god judging) was bound to cause some alarm. Emma is an unfamiliar figure in her own right - only recognizable to the few she interacted with before they passed.

It was after around the third week that the mortals started ignoring the gods entirely. They left the deities to their studying and moved on with their own after-lives, staring at books instead of at them. Killian much preferred it that way. It's much easier to concentrate, he's found, without eyes on him. And if they're to find a way to defeat Rumplestiltskin - or at least subdue him - he's going to need a lot of concentration.

Killian had gotten the fundamentals of the laws and history governing the divine in a stack of books that never seemed to end. Zeus' exploits, Aphrodite's vanity, the private lives of every bloody attention-seeking Olympian and the rise and fall of empires are covered without sparing a single detail in a series of volumes. That is, every detail aside from how to stop the god of the skies from ending the world above as they know it. Lightning bolts are a given going up against gods. It's just that the man who wields them is the very one they want to get rid of. It doesn't appear that there's any other viable alternative.

They've spent hours and hours on researching today alone.

Emma taps a restless rhythm against the wood of the table they're hunching over, her eyes moving from the page in front of her to Killian. "What if we found a way to chain him up? That's what the Olympians did to the Titans, isn't it?"

"The only one capable of forging chains like that was Hephaestus," Killian points out.

"Right," Emma replies grimly, eyes going back to the page. "Who, of course, is long gone. Right along with the Titans. How did Rumpelstiltskin even manage to kill them all? One god against countless? That's a lot of stolen lightning bolts."

"And yet, you're anxious to try conspiring against him - the man responsible for the death of countless gods."

Emma raises her eyebrows at him. "Pot, meet kettle."

"Fair enough," Killian grants. "As for how he's able to do it - from what I heard it was more of a matter of turning them all against each other than it was actively doing a lot of the work himself. Not much for getting his hands directly dirty - no point in it when you can tell stories and turn them all against each other."

"That's not mentioned in the books," Emma says.

"And why would it be? Defeats the purpose of staying covert if word gets around, doesn't it?"

"Either way, he killed them. Does it matter how direct it was?"

"Yes, it does. One way he gets to tell the story of the grand battle of him - the strongman, the idol, the god - going against legions of gods to save the world from their selfish gluttony when the Olympians were becoming more unpopular by the minute. Their reputations were sullied, making the cessation of worship easy enough," Killian explains, recalling the stories he heard in passing in the murmuring of crew members and announcements at ports before he was consigned to this life. It was madness for years until it all finally ended and leagues were dead.

Killian worried a bit for himself, he remembers. Rumplestiltskin didn't concern himself with targets without much to their names - minor gods and goddesses were of no consequence to him until later, when he discovered the difficulty of running an entire bloody world by himself. _Then_ suddenly the god of fishing nets and crooked horseshoes and every last demigod started to have some relevance.

"The other, he was just the coward that managed to find and hoard weapons to hand over to those who had their passions inflamed by idle gossip," Killian finishes.

-/-

Emma sits still for a moment, absorbing the information. The story he tells - one she's sure is true, even without her knack for being able to see the truth - fits in with what she knows about Rumplestiltskin. He's capable of a lot, that much she knows. It isn't just Killian's words and her theory about the water that makes her aware of that. The story of him proffering weapons to gods with poisoned minds hits a little too close to home.

She doesn't say that, though. Emma isn't anxious to reveal even more of herself than she already has. Emma is leaving at some point, after all, it makes no sense to spit out her entire background when she can't build anything aside from that. Killian made that clear after she kissed him, that her only business being here was to worry about Rumplestiltskin's plans. The way he couldn't meet her eyes after they kissed - it went _'I understand'_ , then he cleared his throat and stepped away - said that plenty enough.

It was stupid of her, in retrospect, to kiss a man - a god - that she knew for a little over a day. Offering more of herself up afterwards just seems more foolish.

"Makes sense," Emma finds her words, leaning forward and propping her chin on her hand. "Manipulation seems par for the course - given all I've heard about you that's bound to stem from him."

"I'm surprised he hasn't blamed me for the deaths yet," he mutters grimly. "Would be in character."

"I think he's just spreading that you're the big bad for now," Emma shrugs. "I haven't seen anything blaming you for it. Though to be fair, I wouldn't be surprised if some people blamed you."

Killian seems to ponder that for a moment, thumb pressing against his lips and eyes falling over her shoulder, staring at nothing. His forehead creases in concentration. "Why didn't _you_ blame me?"

"Hm?" her expression is puzzled, features pinched. She's confused, after having had this conversation about why she went to him for help in that temple what feels like forever ago.

"Why did you ask for my help rather than Rumplestiltskin's? You distrusted him before you even met me, what caused that?"

Emma lets out a long breath. "Well," she starts, moving the arm supporting her chin down to the table. "My parents, they-"

She hesitates, stopping herself. Killian just leans forward further still, his curiosity apparently piqued.

 _Great._

"It's a long story."

"I've got all the time in the world," he reminds her.

Emma purses her lips and fidgets, but takes the cue to continue. "I didn't grow up knowing my parents, knowing who I was - what I was, even. I was just…" she exhales, the sound harsh in the quiet, now empty room. She's said this to him before, in some form, trying to reassure him about being lonely. Now it's clear that his state of being alone is completely self imposed. "I was just an orphan. A lost little girl. It wasn't until later that I met my parents and found out they were just trying to keep me safe. Regina was trying to hunt me down, get revenge on my parents by killing me."

"And Regina is…" Killian struggles, thinking for a moment. "Another goddess?"

"Discord," Emma nods, "That'd be her. She was my mother's stepmother. My mother caught her with the stableboy and, well, Regina's mother was pretty angry to find out that the match she set up for her daughter's royalty failed. Cora killed the stableboy. Regina blamed my mother for ratting her out."

"And Rumplestiltskin," Killian prompts, still confused by her story, "how does he fit in all of this?"

"Well," Emma sighs, leaning back in her chair. The wood digs uncomfortably into her back, but she concentrates instead on what she's saying. "There's a limited amount of ways you can kill a god. My grandmother died getting struck by lightning, an unlucky accident that I'm honestly not even sure was an accident in retrospect. And Regina had her method - a couple of stolen lightning bolts and her own magic."

"You don't think they were stolen?" Killian asks, filling in the blanks.

"Rumor has it Rumplestiltskin and Cora - Regina's mother - were involved," Emma explains. "He's never cared for my family, from what I've heard, and I figure his connection to Regina and Cora has something to do with it. Rumplestiltskin wants power. So did they. It makes sense - he got more gods to do him shady favors and they got crowns because _apparently_ , just being a deity isn't enough if you can't rule."

"What happened? How did you manage to survive what the Olympians couldn't?" Killian asks, his curiosity evident. He tilts his ear towards her, as if he'd miss a word otherwise.

"I found my parents, after I figured out I wasn't exactly...normal. A few accidental healings as a teenager taught me that much. Regina came once she heard I was back, despite their best efforts to keep it quiet, and she just waltzed into the castle. Even with the precautions, she got in. And she had the lightning bolt in her hand…"

Her hands fist, mimicing the way Regina held the weapon.

"Yet, you survived."

"I directed it back," she answers bleakly.

Killian catches her meaning. "You defended yourself."

She shouldn't feel guilt over this, not when she's conspiring to do the same to the god who gave her the weapon. Still, she doesn't rejoice in the idea of killing her. Emma was still a teenager, then, she didn't know what the hell she was doing. All she remembers is one second Regina had the bolt and the next second she was gone. Her parents were more proud than afraid, but -

Still.

It's different, defending other people rather than defending yourself.

She changes the subject slightly. "Apparently she killed Cora beforehand, she wasn't able to put up with her boyfriend's murderer. And that left her with one lightning bolt - one for me - and we haven't been bothered by much since. At least, not for decades until the storms started."

"So, Rumplestiltskin has a pattern of using people as weapons," Killian concludes, voice hard. "Hopefully that doesn't continue."

"It won't if we figure this out," Emma says grimly. "It's my people, I won't let them get hurt."

"And he almost got you killed, as well," Killian observes, his eyes firm on hers. "If the tale about Regina was any indication. He couldn't have been too happy you survived and he was left bereft of two accomplices."

"I survived," Emma retorts, sticking her thumb towards the outside doors of the library that lead to the rest of Asphodel. "They didn't."

"True, but in all your selflessness you have to admit it's more than that. It's personal for both of us," Killian murmurs. "He took Milah from me and he almost took your life. You have to fear he'll come after your parents, as well. That has to fuel some of your determination."

Emma fixes her eyes on him. "And what fuels yours?"

-/-

The response takes him by surprise. That, and his lack of one.

Well, Killian has one, but he can hardly tell her as much. They're hardly words that need saying, need _thinking_. Revenge could be one answer - was one answer - but the duties of this position hardly allowed for the flames of his anger to keep burning. His other possible motivation is a different flame entirely.

"Perhaps we should give up for now," Killian suggests, shutting the book in his hand and depositing it back beside the others. It's nightfall, the hours early in the morning, and he's exhausted. He has a host of mortals to judge in the morning, he's not anxious to do them on very little rest.

Emma sighs, frowning and looking down to the book that's been nigh forgotten during their conversation. He can see the way the exhaustion is settling on her as well, the circle under her eyes speaking for themselves. Her eyes remain fixed on the page, skimming over it with a weary sluggishness. "Give it five more minutes, I didn't get to finish this section."

"Swan-" he protests, but she only cuts him off.

"Five minutes," she presses, holding up her fingers to signify the length of time she's requesting. Killian complies with an exaggerated sigh, slumping in his chair as he watches her read. She won't find anything right now, he's sure, with all the scouring they've done and how tired she must be. Five minutes is hardly a span of time in which one can find out anything of particular significance.

Still, he watches her read. If this small amount of time is all she wants, he'll grant it to her.

Emma is about halfway through the allotted time when she sits up, pointing excitedly at the page she's reading from. "I think I found something!"

Killian's brow furrows. "That quickly?"

"Excalibur," she explains. He walks over and leans over her to read from the page she is. "It's a sword imbued with the power to kill whatever it…" Emma frowns, thinking of the proper wording, making a stabbing motion with her hand, "gets run through by it? I think it just says kill any creature in the book - including gods - but…"

"Excalibur," Killian repeats. The name sounds somewhat familiar, though he's never heard of it being wielded against gods. "So, big powerful sword? Get the pointy end in Rumpelstiltskin and the job is taken care of?"

"That is if we can find it. There's two halves," Emma reads, thumb pressing against the page. "One is in the Underworld, the other in the world above. Hades hid one, Persephone the other."

"Don't suppose they left a map around, did they?"

"I think that would defeat the purpose of hiding a god-killing weapon."

"Fair point."

"Thank you, Mystical Objects Volume 39." Emma mutters, putting the bookmark in place and holding the book in her arms. "Words I never thought I'd say. I'm taking this home, this is the best lead we've gotten so far."

"Home?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Emma rolls her eyes, standing up from her seat. "You get what I mean. The place I'm currently sleeping in."

"My home."

Emma laughs. "What, you think I'm trying to fight you for it?"

"I'm willing to share," Killian replies, stepping so close to her that there's only inches between them. Emma looks up at him, book still in her arms, and he could swear she's leaning forward. They're just hairs apart before Emma abruptly steps back.

They both got a bit lost in the moment, he reckons.

"Right," she says, blinking rapidly. "You need sleep, I need sleep, we both need sleep. We should go back to your place."

"Right," he parrots. They can blame sleep deprivation for this, surely. A momentary lapse in judgment that thankfully didn't escalate to anything more. Just like he's sure she's reasoned away the kiss.

It was only a kiss.

Emma sets one of her hands on his arm, looking at him expectantly. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up and recognize the gesture for what it is - a request to leave - but in a blink they're in his home. Her hand lingers on his shoulder regardless. Killian does his best not to read into it.

"I'm going to keep reading," Emma tells him, settling in on his chaise. Her eyes flicker up to meet his, fingers pressed into the leather spine of the volume. "There has to be more, something I'm missing."

Emma has that determined look in her eye, the one that says no matter what he does he won't be able to convince her out of what she wants. He recognizes it well enough, having seen it the first time he'd ever spoken to her. Killian stares at her contemplatively, standing in the middle of the room and considering his next move. He could go to bed - _should_ go to bed. Or Killian could stay here with her, keep her company and do some research of his own.

He already knows what option it's going to be.

"Alright," Killian relents, draping his jacket over the back of one of the chairs and settling beside her on the chaise. He grabs a book from the table that has been collecting volumes from the library over the past few weeks, this one in an ancient tongue she had him help translate earlier, flipping it open and leaning back. He toes off his boots, heels rubbing against leather.

It's going to be a long night. He may as well make himself comfortable.

"You don't have to," Emma protests, her brow furrowed in concern. "I know you have judgments in the morning and -"

"Nonsense, Swan," Killian says, shaking his head. He tries to concentrate on the text in his hand, though the words blur together as he attempts to read them. "I'm quite alright here."

"Killian," Emma chastises, setting the book in her lap on the table. "Go to bed. You need sleep."

"What we need to do," he retorts, waving the book in his hand, "is figure out how to deal with the menace of the skies, eh?"

Emma lets out an exasperated sigh. She picks up the book she just set down. "Alright. Have it your way."

Her features are schooled into indifference, but he's able to recognize the falsity of it by now. Emma is a mystery in many ways - full of more questions than answers - but Killian can pick up on a lot of things about her. She's fond of cinnamon on her fruit, squints when she reads, and kisses men without ever mentioning it again.

They've talked about a lot of things in the time that she's been here. Research, judgments, the water they're still sending to the world above on a daily basis. They've developed a routine of sorts with it all. A routine that has not once included discussing the kiss they shared when she revealed she was staying.

Killian supposes it's best that way.

He can't pin the blame entirely on her, Killian has been mum about it as well. If Emma isn't ready to bring the subject up, he won't either. It was only a kiss, after all, it didn't need to mean anything at all. The longer time goes on and they grow accustomed to having each other around, the longer this becomes evident. They are perfectly capable of working together without fretting about anything romantic in nature. The fate of humanity as they know it is in the balance, it's hardly prudent to compromise that for the sake of a tryst.

Emma is leaving, eventually. Once they're able to solve this mystery, she'll be on her merry way. Ignoring whatever lies between them is the best option going forward.

Emma turns a page beside him and exhales, flipping her hair over her shoulder and leaning further down to study the contents of the book in her lap. She draws her lip between her teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration. The bite doesn't leave indentations on her lip when Emma lets it go.

They were swollen, her lips, when he kissed them. Killian thinks of the Elysian Fields, the way her lips chased his with a gentle ease. The way she didn't complain when his fingers embedded themselves in her hair or his hook pressed against her back. He could see caring there, too, he thought, when she leaned back to look at him with those sparkling jade eyes and -

Killian looked at her in wonder, he knows. He can't help but _wonder_ if she did the same to his, or if the expression was simple confusion. The weight of her hand on his - steady and warm and welcoming - only serves to fuel just how much he wonders.

The kiss meant something, whether he likes it or not. It doesn't even matter if they talk about it or not. Ignoring it won't make the feeling go away, won't make it any easier.

-/-

Emma wakes up surrounded by warmth.

She burrows further into the source without thinking much about it, her eyes still closed. It's only until she notices the surface that she's pressing herself up against is rising and falling that Emma thinks something is wrong. That, and the arms that are tightening around her. Emma opens her eyes and tilts her head up. Sure enough, Killian is out cold below her.

And Emma is on top of him on the couch. They must have fallen asleep while reading, the exhaustion catching up with both of them. Daylight is filtering in through the curtains, dawn just breaking. She considers sliding off of him and shaking him awake as if he'd just fallen asleep _alone_ , not curled around her like a god-pillow.

Before she can, Killian's breaths get faster and his eyes open, focusing on her hazily. Once Killian realizes their position, his eyes widen.

Emma isn't exactly sure of the protocol when it comes to accidentally falling asleep on someone. Laugh it off? Shrug? Run away?"

"Well," Killian clears his throat, breaking the silence so she doesn't have to. His arms are still around her, but he lets them fall to his side when he notices just close they are. "This is awkward."

"Keen observation," Emma says, voice more breathy than she wants it to be. Their faces are only inches from each other, his hair hanging down like a curtain around then. Killian gently tucks some of the strands back behind her ear, his expression unreadable. He leans up just a bit, just until his nose brushes against hers and she can feel his lips just centimeters away from hers.

"Judgements," Emma says abruptly, sliding off of him to stand up. "We should get going to the judgements."

"Right," he blinks, his eyes clouded. "Right."

Killian rubs at his eyes, sitting up. Emma stands in front of him, arms crossed and stance stiff. Killian is right - it is awkward. Awkward and tense. The fact that she's pretty certain she felt something pressing against her when she slid off of his lap that was definitely not platonic feeling isn't helping matters. They really don't make a guidebook for situations like this. She's been in the library enough lately, Emma should know.

He awkwardly adjusts himself, grabbing a pillow from where it rests next to him on the chaise and not at all subtlely setting it in his lap.

She _definitely_ felt something, then.

She can feel the blush rising in her cheeks. Emma looks around the room at anything but him, eyes dancing around the wallpaper and the rug underneath her toes. Anything is better than starting a conversation with him about any possible...masts. Killian, too, seems to be avoiding her eyes.

It takes him a few moments, but he makes eye contact with her again. Killian raises his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side. "Should we get to the judgements, then?"

"Shoes, first," she reminds him, looking down at her own bare feet. "And I'm gonna need a comb. You, too, from the looks of it."

"I am?"

His hair is tousled, sticking up in places. Emma can't hold back a slight smile, envisioning mortals approaching the god of the Underworld looking as if he'd just tumbled out of bed. Or, in this case, tumbled from underneath another goddess on a couch.

Not like that.

Emma cringes at her thought process. Killian misreads her reaction, frowning and running his hand through his hair. "It's not ghastly, is it?"

"No, no," she reassures him immediately - if you told her before that she'd be comforting the god of the Underworld about his _hair_ she would have rightly called that person insane - grinning slightly as she notices his attempts to fix his hair only seem to make it more messy. Emma brushes it out of his face, smoothing it down with her fingers. "Just slept on - you're fine."

His hand catches hers on his head, eyes still on her.

It takes her a beat too long to pull her hand back.

-/-

The awkwardness continues throughout judgements, the two of them hardly able to meet each others' eyes to the point where even the mortals' eyes dart between the two of them as if they're wondering what's wrong with them. Smee even notices, if the furrowed brows and pinched face were any indication. Emma and Killian's interactions aren't unfriendly, per say. The words between them are not clipped as much as rushed and not harsh as much as uncomfortable.

It's not until they're doing their daily water collecting and sending that Emma finally gets sick of the tension.

"About the kiss," Emma starts, finally broaching the subject. As much as she'd rather sweep it under the rug and ignore her feelings, she can't. Not entirely, anyway. Playing the awkward dancing game isn't helping matters at all. If her goal was to make things less weird by not talking about what happened, she failed pretty spectacularly. "I didn't regret it."

Killian nearly drops the barrel he's filling. He settles it on the grass instead, turning around to face her. "Hm?"

"I didn't regret the kiss. If you did, that's totally fine and we never have to talk about it again. I just kissed you because I wanted to. And I meant what I said, about staying for other…" she hesitates, cringing at her own inarticulateness, "reasons."

"Oh?" he asks, voice nearly a whisper.

"So do you?"

"What?"

"Regret it? I'm going to need you to get a lot less monosyllabic if you want to make this any less-"

He strides forward, curling his hand in her hair and his arm around her waist as brings his lips down to hers. Emma stills in shock for a moment, surprised by his response, before curling her fingers in his lapel and tugging him closer still. It's deeper, this kiss is. His splays his hand on her cheek and presses his thumb against her chin, opening her mouth further and curling his tongue against hers. The coolness of his rings on her cheek is a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth and she chases more of the latter feeling, standing up on her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I'm going to take that as a no," Emma rasps once their lips separate, leaning back to look at him.

"As if I could ever regret kissing you," he laughs breathlessly. "I just - you didn't mention it, after, so I assumed-"

"We're such idiots," she laughs herself, hand covering her face in embarrassment. "You'd think we'd have better communication skills, being gods and all."

"Well, how's this for communication - after we're done here, perhaps I could show you more of the Elysian Fields? A break from the constant investigating," Killian offers, a wide grin.

"Yeah," Emma nods, a smile remaining on her face. "I'd like that."

"You would?" Killian asks, his voice getting a little too high pitched. He nearly cringes at himself, scratching behind his ear. "Well, if you would…"

"Which we've settled," Emma's grin stays, widens, even, "that I would."

He kisses her again. She laughs against his mouth.

-/-

He takes her to the stables in Elysian, afterwards, which are surprisingly empty. There are horses grazing in spacious stalls, looking content, but there don't seem to be many attendants around. Given how occupied the library in Asphodel was, it's a little eyebrow-raising.

"How come this place is so empty?"

"The horses are well taken care of, rest assured. As for the emptiness, the Elysian Fields are more vast than even I can comprehend," Killian explains. "There are a few of the special sort of locations - Lake Nostos, for example, there's only one of. It originally existed in the world above, but when it dried up...well, we got it."

"So even lakes die," Emma observes.

He shrugs. "In their own way, I suppose they do. That's why the Underworld is so big - everything dies at some point or another. Just means there's more to enjoy when you join the rest."

Emma frowns. "That's both...morbid and optimistic."

"A fine line to walk," he acknowledges. "But it's how things work here, I suppose. Care to go for a ride?"

He gestures to the stalls of horses around them.

"Traveling by horse," Emma notes, her eyebrows raising. "You do know you can just 'poof' us somewhere, right?"

"Aye," he chuckles. "But that's not nearly as fun, is it?"

Her lips curve into a smile. "True. Which horse?"

Killian unlocks the hatches of the closest stall, carefully guiding the dark horse out of it. "A personal favorite of mine, I must admit."

The horse seems calm, at least, nuzzling its nose into Killian's hand without much thought.

"And these are the really heroic horses, right?" Emma jokes. "Saving people from burning buildings, fighting off other mean horses, running orphanages for foals, that sort of thing?"

Killian's grin widens. "Aye, exactly. The Elysian Fields has standards, you know."

"And who does the judgements for the animals?" she asks lightly, carefully edging towards the horse in front of them. It eyes her carefully, but allows her to stroke its nose once Killian pulls his hand away. "The god of animal death?"

"Unfortunately, we haven't been able to get that position filled quite yet," Killian replies with faux disappointment. "I have to take over the animal judgements, it's a real time consumer. Smee keeps them in a pen until I can go through them all monthly. The memories of some of the cats will astound you."

Emma snorts, still petting the horse. "Just to verify - you're not being serious, right?"

"Absolutely not, all animals go to Elysian."

She scrunches her face. "Even the nasty ones?"

"What, like the animal war criminals?"

"You _clearly_ haven't met some crocodiles."

Killian throws his head back and laughs, the sound warm and full. He settles on the horse, climbing onto its back. She grins herself, taking his proffered hook and climbing on right behind him. Her arms slide around his waist to hold herself in place.

"So," Emma says, tightening her grip on him. "You aren't seeing horse memories right now, right?"

"No. We have very different minds. Even if my powers did extend to that, it'd all be gibberish to me anyway."

"Good to know."

-/-

There's a space of sea in Elysian, secluded from most everything else. The mortals venture here sometimes, he knows, but there's so much of paradise to enjoy there's always a spot left alone when the occasion is right. This bit of coast is one of them. The ship at the docks - a faint mimicry of what he used to know - made by occupants of Elysian dedicated to their craft. There were many ships, here, too many to fill with people. This is just one of them.

It's not as grand and it's not nearly as much of home as the Jolly Roger was, but he supposes it'll do for these purposes. He's never been courageous enough to try it out before now, certain it'd feel something like betrayal to the home he'd left behind.

Emma's voice over his shoulder breaks him out of his thoughts as the horse slows to a stop.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you had a thing for boats."

Killian can nearly hear the grin in her voice. She dismounts, sliding off the horse and shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks to the horizon. He nearly replies, has something witty on his tongue, but his throat goes dry as he looks at her.

He finds the words again when she meets his eyes expectantly.

"Man who wanted to be god of the sea, remember?" he retorts, sliding down from the horse and letting it free to roam.

"Understood," Emma says. "For the record, it's nice here, too."

"You ever set sail?" he asks curiously. "In the world above, that is?"

Emma shakes her head. "Nope - I've been pretty landlocked. Are you going to take me out and show me what it's really like?"

She approaches him as she says the words, tilting her head and fisting the leather of his collar into her hands. Her eyes are glinting and there's a small smile tugging on her lips. Killian carefully, nigh warily, sets his hand at the curve of her spine. Emma wets her lips and he resists the temptation to kiss her again.

"I'm afraid it doesn't quite compare to the true nature of the sea above-"

"It's been thunderstorming for the past year," Emma replies dryly. "No one is sailing. You want to compare paradise to that?"

"I always thought it was exhilarating, personally, sailing in a storm," Killian admits. "I miss it."

His eyes go back to the ship - the one that pales in comparison to the one he remembers. It'll do. "And yes," he takes one of her hands in his, interlocking their fingers and gently tugging her forwards. "If you're willing, I'd love to take you out to the sea."

"Count me in," Emma replies easily, walking towards the ship at his side. "You used to be a pirate, right? Show me how to swashbuckle."

Killian raises his eyebrows. "Used to be? I still am - you can't change that much about a man. And love, for the record, I don't think I've ever heard a pirate say 'swashbuckle' with a straight face."

Emma laughs, resting her head on his shoulder. "Duly noted."

-/-

It's odd getting used to a ship under his feet after spending so many years trying to become familiar with steady ground. The ship isn't the same - not as fast or as smooth - but the rocking underneath his feet is. The wheel is designed differently, but turns all the same. The boards don't have any fault or traps as he knows the Jolly Roger had, and all of these small details take quite a bit of getting used to.

But it's not bad, truthfully.

And, of course, because Emma is Emma, she picks up sailing in no time under his direction. Manning the wheel only takes ten minutes of instruction for her to get the hang of and she doesn't get queasy at the feeling of the waves once. Emma is a natural with the ocean and the grin she gives him when the sun starts setting and he drops anchor feels natural, too.

"The stars are the same here, you know," Killian says, gesturing to the sky above them. It's not quite dark yet, but it'll get there soon. "Just as the moon and the sun are - they're mirrored in the other direction, sure, but there all the same."

"I noticed night was day and day was night here," Emma notes, flickering her eyes between the sunset and the sky directly above here. "So that makes sense."

"Everything is a bit backwards here," Killian admits. "I've gotten used to it. I don't suppose you'd like to see the stars here? It gives you a new perspective, I think."

"Sure," Emma nods, craning her neck to look up at where a few are beginning to appear. "I'd like that."

-/-

They're lying on their backs on top of the deck, not an hour later. Emma is inches from him, listening as he explains the inverted Cassiopeia and Ursa Major and Minor. It's nice, he has to admit, being back on some variant of the ocean. Seeing stars that he's grown accustomed to over the centuries, hearing the slight wonder in her voice as they converse. Circumstances as dire as they could be above, it's a pleasant break from the constant investigating.

A celebration of the fact that they've progressed beyond that initial period of 'reluctant allies' to 'we kissed, now can't look each other in the eye' to...well, whatever Emma would call this.

"So, you take a lot of women out on your ship?" Emma asks teasingly, tilting her head to meet his eyes when he wraps up his explanation of the legend of Callisto and its purposes for navigation. "Win them over with stargazing and trivia?"

"No women, not since Milah, I'm afraid. Never been on this ship before, either," he admits. "Or any, here. Thought it'd be too much - to be stuck with the mimicry instead of the real thing. My old ship, the Jolly Roger...it was home. This is just a ship."

"Well," Emma offers, voice soft. "Maybe this can be home, too. Just in a different way. You can have multiple, you know."

"I suppose I can," he murmurs in response, his eyes still fixed to hers.

He wants to kiss her. The marvelous thing is that he can and he does, leaning forward and meeting her lips easily. She kisses back gently, her hand knotting in his hair and her knee bumping against his leg. It's enough, this is. Emma beside him, her mouth sliding against his, the feeling of the ocean's breeze against his skin. It's as more than he's ever hoped for in centuries.

-/-

When they get back to Killian's home, she hears Smee knocking incessantly at his door. Killian and Emma exchange frowns, wondering what business he could have this time of night, and when Killian opens the door Smee is holding a scroll in his hand.

"Sorry," he apologizes immediately. "It's important."

Killian takes the message from him with a frown. "It couldn't wait until morning?"

Smee shakes his head. "If you have a reply...I can pass it on tomorrow."

Killian just nods, brow furrowed. Emma doesn't know what's going on and, from the looks of it, Killian doesn't either. They linger in front of the door, even after Killian closes it and Smee leaves.

"A letter," Killian murmurs, unfurling the scroll in his hand. Emma can't help but be curious and she cranes her head to get a better look. "It's from Rumplestiltskin."

Emma's face falls at the name. "You're serious."

"Aye, Leroy must have passed it on to Charon at the Styx. And, of course, Smee ran it back down here," his eyes skim over the page and - unfortunately - the words are in a language she can't understand. Greek has always been out of her element, but apparently Rumplestiltskin and Killian can communicate just fine in it.

Even though they haven't communicated in _centuries_.

"What is it?"

"He's asking me to return you," Killian's jaw tics, the show of agitation seeping through. "As if I'd stolen you away."

"I came here willingly," Emma points out, stating the obvious. "I asked you to take me here."

"Ah, but he doesn't know that," Killian grimaces. "And whatever message you left your parents, they didn't pass it on. Perhaps it wouldn't be prudent to?"

Emma thinks back to the note, which expressly mentioned her suspicions about Rumplestiltskin. She sighs. "No, it wouldn't. But he's not my keeper, he doesn't get to decide what I do. I need to stay here," Emma insists, scowling at the scroll as she takes it from his hands. "I need to get more water, send more of it to my parents. We still need to figure out what to do about Rumpelstiltskin before he hurts _more_ people."

"I know," he agrees quickly, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder. "Believe me, love, I know. But perhaps we're causing too much suspicion as his end. He's asking me to deliver you back to the world above, makes me think he has a suspicion of why you're here. The decrease of deaths has to be setting off alarms."

"Deliver," Emma scoffs in disbelief. "I'm not something that can just be delivered! I made the decision to come here, I'll make the decision to leave."

"This scroll," Killian gestures to it in distaste, "would beg to differ, love. I clearly don't agree with the man, but..." he sighs. "I don't want to know what he'd do to your family if you failed to follow his orders."

"So, what's his reasoning?" Emma asks, raising her eyebrows. "I have no business being here?"

"That was the," Killian hesitates. "That was the general message I gathered, yes."

Emma frowns contemplatively, forehead wrinkling. She bites her lip, crossing her arms around herself. "We need an excuse for me being here, huh?"

Killian sighs in resignation. "Just go back home, love. I'll keep sending more water through, aye? No sense in putting you in any more danger than you already are."

"I'm not any more easily killed than Rumplestiltskin," she protests. "I can handle myself. And I'm staying here. We're not done."

"Not done with what?" Killian asks, his eyebrows raising. "We won't get anywhere if Rumplestiltskin is already suspicious."

"Like that'll change if I leave?"

"The last woman I cared about ended up dead at his hands, so yes, I'm concerned. Can you blame me?"

"We're this close, Killian!" Emma exclaims, exasperated, and illustrates her points with her thumb and forefinger. "We can't just give up now."

"Perhaps I could carry on the research alone, and you in the world above."

"And if the book is right? One piece is in the world above, another piece is here. We'll have a hell of a time bringing it together if I can't come here."

"Perhaps we could figure something out in my temple," Killian sighs, resignation clear in his tone. "Emma please, would you just-"

"Let it go? He killed countless numbers of my people and almost had me killed - I'm not letting this go. Our best shot is if I'm here, that's how we can figure this out. It was Hades and his wife who hid Excalibur and the way to find it has to be here," Emma insists, not letting up.

"And Rumplestiltskin still has an inkling we're up to something and his sights are on you, Swan. I won't paint a target on your back."

"Let me decide what's on my back."

"Swan," he says plaintively. "Just...it's not worth it. Leave, we'll figure out the rest when we can."

"I'm not going anywhere," Emma retorts. She considers why he's being so insistent about this, why he wouldn't want her to stay when it's clear she has to, and her face falls. "Unless you want me to leave, in which case you should just say it."

"It doesn't matter what I want."

"You didn't want me to leave before - do you now?"

"Emma-"

"Just answer the question!" Emma groans in frustration, stepping closer until they're toe-to-toe. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I want you to be safe."

"That's not an answer. And I won't be - none of us will be - so long as Rumplestiltskin is out there," Emma fires back, stepping closer to him. "So what, I need an excuse to be here?"

Killian sighs. "There are hardly any convincing ones that don't involve detailing us conspiring together."

"What about the whirlwind romance excuse? I mean," she motions between the two of them, frowning in thought, "we're kind of…"

"Romantically entangled? I don't know," Killian mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Emma almost feels hurt until he continues. "If we just said you ran off to cavort with the god of the Underworld, I doubt it'd be convincing."

Emma doesn't let up, refusing to give so much as an inch. She has to stay and they have to figure this out, it's as simple as that. "We'll make it convincing."

"How?"

Emma huffs in frustration. "What if I married you?"

It just slips out of her mouth. Killian freezes and she does, too, but steels within a second. Emma tilts her chin up and keeps her stance firm and spine straight.

His jaw drops. "What?"

Killian's voice sounds remarkably higher in pitch, too.

"What if I," she repeats, staring him right in the eye, "married you? We could claim that's why I'm here - to marry you. We talked in your temple because I..stopped there on one of my trips to heal villagers. We kept talking, we fell in love, I came here. You can't leave so I stayed. It's as good of an excuse as any. Rumplestiltskin will still be suspicious, but it's not like he can claim I have no reason to be here."

Killian is still staring at her in disbelief. It's beginning to get to her, a little bit. She squirms uncomfortably.

"Look, if you don't -"

"Why?" Killian asks, baffled. "Why do that? Are your people truly that important to you that you'd resort to this? Surely there are other ways to conspire."

"Resort," Emma echoes, frowning. "I'm not resorting to anything. It's an idea. Rumplestiltskin can't exactly split up a married couple without looking suspicious, right? He won't have an excuse if I make clear I wasn't…" she grimaces in distaste, "stolen away and that I'm choosing to stay to be with you."

He remains stonefaced, still staring at the scroll in his hand.

"Killian," she says softly, insistently, fingers fisting in his hair. Emma stands up on her tiptoes, leaning until her cheek is pressed against his chin and she can curl her chin into his shoulder. He wraps his arms firmly around her waist when hers tether over his shoulders. "Do you trust me?" she asks, her words nearly a whisper against his ear.

His grip on her tightens, just a bit, and his lungs let out a deep breath. "Aye."

It figures it's come to this. She was just here to get answers, here to try to figure out how to help her people. Here to fulfill her duties - to mortals, to her parents, to the world at large. Emma is the Savior and she's known since she was twenty-eight, decades ago though she doesn't look it, that she had responsibilities. They've weighed on her ever since. After a brief adjustment period full of denial and anger and all the rest that came with being told she was a goddess responsible for saving an entire damn kingdom, Emma came to accept it all.

But she sees something in Killian so like herself it aches - the duty, the loneliness, the burdens. He doesn't have a family - no Snow and David - to relieve the ache, the loneliness. There's no one to share his burdens.

But she wants to.

She wants to because she knows he'd do the same for her, because he cares in the same way she does, because he's just like her in so many ways but different enough from her to balance her out.

It didn't have to mean anything. It was just a reason for her to stay, an excuse.

Emma is making a lot of excuses, she knows.

(It does mean something - anyone else she'd never think of it.)

"Why not just leave?" he says in nearly a whisper, his eyes still fixed on hers. Killian looks confused, helpless even, and it makes her heart ache in her chest. "I'm sure there would be something we could do, even with the distance…"

"I don't…" Emma closes her eyes, steeling herself to say the words. "I don't want to."

"Why not?"Killian's voice is rough, emotion evident in his words. "You could plan all the same up on earth. Why stay?"

His voice is rough, speaking of emotion he's holding back, and all Emma can do is bring her hand up to his cheek. Killian nearly flinches back from her touch, but exhales and leans into it all the same.

"This is our best option right now," she tells him. They're inches from each other, now, and when Emma slides her thumb along his cheekbone his eyes flutter shut.

"You're doing it out of duty,"Killian says, sounding resigned. His eyes are still closed. "Not out of any real affection."

Emma's face twists into a frown. "You really think that?"

"Isn't that the case?"

It is and it isn't. She would never consider asking this if the circumstances were different and the fate of the world wasn't on the line. But maybe someday this is something she would have wanted for herself. The fact that she's known him for weeks doesn't make it any more reasonable, but the fact that they really _need_ to make this work does.

"Look at me," Emma insists instead, her hand still on his face. He complies, though he's still obviously torn."I wouldn't suggest it if it were anyone else."

Killian takes a beat to nod, but when he does, his posture softens and he leans into her. Emma lets out a sigh of relief when he dips his head down to kiss her. The silent answers feels a lot like a yes. It's not like she planned to plot a proposal for the sake of fooling a god, but if this is the situation she's stuck in -

It's like she said. If it were anyone else, she wouldn't suggest it.


End file.
